


Behind Blue Eyes

by ferowyn



Series: Hobbit Kink [27]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: (I like metaphors), (and strawberries), (mostly) movieverse, (surprise!), (surprise), AND THOSE METAPHORS, AU, B/T/D, BAMF Bilbo, But not always, I mean it, M/M, Multi, OT3 - yaay, Rule 63, all that drrrrama, also there's drama, always a girl bilbo, and h/c, did I mention drama?, dwarves are way more sensible, fem!Bilbo, hobbits are empaths, hobbits can be arses, kink meme fill, there's way too many metaphors, this got waaay out of hand
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-13
Updated: 2017-06-05
Packaged: 2018-10-04 04:18:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 47,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10268099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ferowyn/pseuds/ferowyn
Summary: Where Thorin is water, deep and vast and unpredictable as the sea, Dwalin is fire. Or, well, something equally burning, for the passionate scalding heat of volcanoes is actually made of molten rock and stone (or so her father's books claim, and how fit would that be for such a rock-skulled dwarrow).Either way, Bilbo cannot help but think that it fits: Both of them are so different, and yet so very much alike - passionate, and forces of nature, and neigh unstoppable. And she is so terribly, hopelessly, ridiculously in love with both of them.





	1. Out of the clear Blue sky

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [If You Go Out to the Woods](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1408846) by [bubbysbub](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bubbysbub/pseuds/bubbysbub). 



> So... apparently, Dwalin made himself at home in my OTP, and intends to stay there -.- (Yes, I know, I _know_ , I haven’t given up on SOO – I promise!)  
> Anyway, on that note: This fanfic was, in a way, inspired by the wonderful bubbysbub’s [If You Go Out to the Woods](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1408846/chapters/2955868/) \- because, strictly speaking, any Bilbo/Thorin/Dwalin piece I write is. There should be not too many similarities except for the obvious, but it wouldn’t be fair not to mention this. Besides, if any of you haven’t read it – go do so! ;)
> 
> Also, this is a fill for a [prompt](http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/7346.html?thread=16346034#t16346034) at the hobbit kink meme, and was going to be about 3k words… except then drama happened, and it got a little out of hand *cough* But, well, you know me. Drama _always_ happens :p
> 
> Soo… with all that said, enjoy :)

### I: Out of the clear Blue sky 

Bilbo can sense it the moment everything changes for the first time.

Not that she is in any way fit to react to it, with everything that is happening-

Dwalin’s emotions are, like always, a roiling pool of heat ever-ready to explode, tickling and dancing at the edge of her awareness whenever she manages not to concentrate on them in the first place. He, like Thorin, is always on her mind, in more than one way. Sometimes she succeeds at pushing them away, a comforting reprieve, but now? Now Thorin is lying behind her on the cold, hard ground, his own emotions a deep, churning pool of _agony_ , waves of hopelessness and pain and endless anger all crashing into her with every breath he takes. Still, the red-hot force of Dwalin’s staggering surprise burns at the forefront of her mind, along with an incredible gratitude – she has, after all, stepped between the one he loves and certain death – and something like… wonder?

A stark difference to the usual disdain and occasional flashes of worry.

There is, however, no time to think at all, let alone analyse this sharp change in regard for her.

With shaking hands she drives the blade of her little sword into the orc’s chest once more, forcing herself to concentrate on the nuances of its flickering hatred instead. No fear flares up, like she might have expected were she still clear enough to actually think, not even a clear blaze of pain… just more hatred, and then – this flame in front of her goes dark as she finally pierces the blackened heart, and at the same time a heavy blanket settles over the agony that is _Thorin_ behind her, the whipped up waves calming with unconsciousness.

_Bother._

For a single, short moment Bilbo allows herself to avert her focus and her eyes to follow the sensation of blanketed pain, darting a brief glance at his unmoving form behind her – she knows he is alive, can _feel_ it, the water dark but not lost, however, that barely succeeds in making her any less worried – before tightening her hold on the weapon in her small hands once more, defiant blue eyes now fixed on Azog’s advancing form.

Where the attacker before was a candle’s flame, the Pale Orc is a bushfire, burning with a hatred she has never felt before (not even from Lobelia who, by all rights, has loathed her for her entire life), and his confidence slams into her like a blazing mace. He is the superior of the two, and more than aware of it.

But, there are two vital characteristics to Bluebell – who prefers going by the nickname her Took cousins gave her after she showed up in trousers instead of skirts once more, thank you very much – Baggins that Azog the Defiler does not know of, and she is most certainly going to exploit every advantage of them: First, the one whose head (or something similar, his blazing emotions differ enough from a hobbit’s that she cannot make out any details of his currently greatest desire) he is asking for is one she has lost her heart to, one she considers family, and thus one she will protect with everything she has. She is, after all, a Baggins of Bag End. And second, she is a hobbit. Well, he may be aware of that (or not), but most certainly not of what her being a hobbit means (apart from the obvious facts, of course, that she is tiny, and has had no weapons-training whatsoever-): That she can sense every single undercurrent, every movement and flicker of emotion burning through him. She may not be able to make sense of all the details and nuances, may not have the experience to read every little flicker and flare like others might read a book, but not for nothing is Bilbo one of the strongest and most talented empaths the Shire has brought forth since Bullroarer Took.

She may not be a warrior, but she sure knows how to interpret another’s emotions, thoroughly exploit them, and (sometimes) even twist them to her own advantage.

(Not that the latter is an ability she will ever be allowed to use, by Shire law or Yavanna’s will.)

Yet, despite the extent of her gift – or maybe even due to it – she struggles with focussing on the flame of hatred that is the Pale Orc, with so many different (and whipped up) emotions slamming into her that she barely manages to keep them apart, let alone concentrate on a specific one. Dori and Ori’s panic are the strongest ones, whirling and raging and battling her own for supremacy-

Forcing her eyes to stay glued to the Pale Orc’s cruel features Bilbo takes a deep breath, before searching for the wizard in all that chaos of fear and pain.

Gandalf is like the darkening sky above them, a huge expanse spanning across the entirety of her sixth sense’s reaches. She has never been able to actually read him (or even understand him, really), his emotions too grand and complex for her to make sense of. Still, she knows him well enough (an old friend of her mother’s as he is) to discern the underlying feelings, if not any details. The dark, oppressive clouds of dread may have been disheartening, if not for the hopeful sunrays peeking through, and an impatient wind slowly but surely picking up.

It is enough for Bilbo to understand that there is a plan, even if it is Gandalf’s.

It means that there is hope, too.

This perception slams into her with the same force as Azog’s confidence did, giving her the strength to finally push all those negative emotions (Balin’s painful resignation, Nori’s naked fear, Bofur and Bombur’s shaking trepidation, Óin’s paralysing fright, Bifur’s crippling agony, Glóin’s stubborn refusal to believe what is happening, the boys’ and Dwalin’s frenzied urgency-) to the back of her mind.

The Pale Orc snarls something in that foul language of his – the implication clear enough in the blazing mixture of hatred and satisfaction – and another orc approaches where she is quivering in front of Thorin’s unmoving form. Bilbo grips her short sword even more tightly as a wave of determination (her own once more) sweeps through her, strong enough to drown out all but Thorin, Dwalin and the disfigured creature before her. It burns with the same hatred and single-minded focus to follow its leader’s commands as the one before it did, and it is this similarity that allows her to attune to it more easily, despite the raw strangeness of its blazing emotions. Remembering how the other orc’s death felt, calling to mind the sudden blank darkness where before a bright, cruel flame had flared, she carefully raises her weapon the way she has seen Thorin do it. There is none of his tight control, none of the easy certainty brought about only by years of sweat and rigid training, but she trusts it to be effective none the less.

When the orc lunges its hatred blazes with fierce determination. It gives her no more than a moment’s warning, but Bilbo throws her own body out of the blow’s way while striking low herself. Still, she feels the rugged blade cut her side, easily drawing through her thin clothing. The abominable being before her _screeches_ and falls to its knees when her own little blade mercilessly slices through them, however, its flaming emotions drowning out her own ache as well as all others except for Thorin and Dwalin’s.

It is the blanketed agony behind her that gives her the push she needs to jump forward and stab the orc, low under its ribs and then again roughly across the jugular, until its flame, too, fades before finally going black-

And with the absence of the burning hatred comes the pain.

Hissing lowly she reaches for her side even as she doubles up, dismayed when her hand comes away with blood. Bother. (She really should have known, what with how it is feeling, but, well. She has always been better at drawing conclusions from others’ emotions than at listening to her own.)

From the corners of her eyes she sees Azog’s warg crouch, crude animals’ emotions reaching her, but finds herself unable to react to it. (Shock, her mind helpfully provides her with an answer. Also, her hands are shaking and she is feeling faintly sick – though that is more likely due to having killed a living being, orc or no.)

Still, she is the only one standing, the last barrier between Thorin and the Pale Orc-

Dwalin’s victorious ferocity and destructive anger explode against her mind much like Grasper slams into the White Warg’s side.

Fíli and Kíli are not far behind him, their blades cutting a wide swathe through the mass of attackers, and Bilbo immediately takes advantage of the short respite, pressing her small hands against the wound at her side in an effort to staunch the bleed. The cut must be deeper than she originally thought, and were it not for all those fevered emotions – the pain would have been crippling, for a soft creature like her.

She hears Dwalin _roar_ then, when an orc attempts to sneak past him and a distracted Bilbo (whose hands are coated in entirely too much blood when she cautiously pulls them away from her side once more) in order to attack Thorin.

She would have whipped around, too, to help him, her wound forgotten for the moment, were it not for the abrupt ray of _hope_ from Gandalf drowning out even Ori and Dori’s desperate panic, and the sudden appearance of emotions too grand and old to comprehend.

Staring thoughtlessly at the darkening sky, through the smoke and against the light of the moon, Bilbo spots the forms of giant Eagles and allows her shoulders to sag.

She tries to stumble over to Thorin, but huge claws close around her – and the small sword she barely has the presence of mind to grasp tightly with one hand, the other once more pressed against her side – before she manages to take even one step and lift her up, only to leave her falling but moments later.

Another powerful Eagle catches her easily, a calm focus of confident certainty suddenly at the forefront of her mind, and she allows it to blanket all other emotions, including her own. No matter her talent, or her experience (the Fell Winter is a memory she prefers to bury rather than think of, but one that does rear its ugly head from time to time), there is little control she can draw from when another’s emotions are as wild and raw as those of her companions are right now.

Tiredly she allows the Eagles’ unbroken serenity to drown both thought and emotion, pulling the handkerchief Bofur gave her all those weeks before from her pocket with shaking fingers and pressing it against her side even as she stares at the sky passing above her with blank, unseeing eyes.


	2. Blue oblivion, largely lit, smiled and smiled at me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today's chapter's title is a quote by William Rose Benet.
> 
>  
> 
> This is a little short, and rather more of a filler, but I hope you enjoy it none the less :)  
> (...I did warn you about the ridiculous amount of metaphores incoming... did I? _Strawberries!_ )

### II: Blue oblivion, largely lit, smiled and smiled at me.

“I have never been so wrong in all my life,” Thorin rumbles, voice as deep as the sea (or so Bilbo imagines), tromping over to where she is standing, and every step makes her flinch as his pain smashes into her without mercy, rolling waves crashing against a shaken shore.

She might have said something, then, about his injuries, or her own, but- … well.

Thorin winds his strong, _strong_ arms (and who knew that she is thusly susceptible to a decent amount of muscle? No wonder the hobbit lads who came with pretty flowers and lush offers of courtship never succeeded in impressing her) around her despite the crushing pain in his side at the movement, and for a short (endless) moment all she feels is the safety of his careful hold, the warmth of his huge body, the thumping of his heart beneath her ear. It feels like sliding into a tub of hot water in the evening after a day spent working hard, with a glass of good wine and a bowl of fresh strawberries covered in cream on the side table, and a stack of fluffy towels waiting to draw her into their very own embraces. Thorin’s suddenly so positive emotions are gentle waves of soapy, bubbly water lapping against her relaxing body, gratefulness and wonder easily keeping the guilt at having treated their burglar thusly at bay, along with the pain-

Gandalf – dratted old badger – of course has to take this chance of ruining a perfectly nice moment by clearing his throat. Loudly.

“Master Óin,” he says, a few clouds of worry gathering, and Bilbo knows where this is going. And what revelations are going to come of it. Bother. “I believe our burglar is in need of your skills.”

The elderly dwarrow raises his head from his ear trumpet (and the so far rather fruitless attempts of bending it back into shape, a faint flow of anger and dismay both trickling into her conscience only to be replaced by suspicion) upon this clear suggestion, and the sudden flood of _worry_ washing across her when Thorin loosens their precious embrace is almost enough to distract her from the pain she has so graciously been reminded of.

“Bilbo? Are you hurt?”

And there goes the gentle contentment, taking along both wonder and gratefulness. A sudden storm approaches, but not one of destructive anger (as she is used to) – no, this time it is concern that churns up the deep waters of Thorin’s emotions.

It is not, however, only his worry that reaches her, once more too many emotions mixing up and flowing together for her to keep them apart. Then Gandalf steps forward, far skies stretching across her, and with the clouds of worry comes a gentle wind of admonishment, barely strong enough to give her a sensation to concentrate on.

Taking a deep breath Bilbo opens her eyes again (just when did she close them?), only to blush and grimace when she realizes that all dwarrows’ eyes are riveted on her small form, Óin already making his way over to where she is still standing with Thorin.

Just bloody perfect.

Well, there is nothing for it but to comply, and she knows it. With a slightly sheepish smile she lifts the now all but ruined handkerchief (well, piece of tunic, really, no proper hobbit would have used that strip of cloth as a handkerchief, but somehow she has grown a certain… fondness for it, over the past few weeks) from her side and tries her very best to ignore the alarmed gasps (for she cannot ignore the suddenly increased worry) when her dwarrows see the blood. Um, a lot of blood that is.

Bloody flipping _awesome_.

And she could not even tell what annoys her the most, her companions’ worry, that she was hurt in the first place, the extent of the wound, or that they found out-

Gandalf frowns gloomily, the worried clouds growing dark with an anger that, as she knows from experience, stems from fearing for someone you care about. “Why didn’t you say?”

Shrugging helplessly Bilbo’s deeply blue eyes travel back to where Thorin is standing, watching her with equally blue eyes (though of an entirely different shade). His emotions have calmed a bit, upon taking in the wizard’s sedate countenance, but the clear worry is still churning up waves already breaking, a white foam of pain clinging to them.

“He… was worse off?” she offers weakly, stubbornly returning Thorin’s concerned glower. “Besides, I’d really prefer it if we climbed off this… thing before Óin takes care of me. _Really_.” With this she presses the handkerchief back against her side, settling her free hand on her hip in defiant expectation after finally having put away that sword. (How any of the dwarrows can expect her to know what to do with it, given that they have no idea of hobbits’ special abilities, is far beyond her.)

Gandalf, for once, seems to understand her reasons and even agree with them. He nods quickly, interrupting their Companions’ concerned glances and mutters of worried disagreement.

“Are you able to walk?”

Huh.

Her knees, it turns out, are… trembling.

“I’m… not sure?” Bilbo reluctantly admits, quite distracted by the seething pool of worry for both her and Thorin that is Dwalin. Upon a short inventory it turns out her fingers, too, are shaking, and she is feeling rather faint. (And has been, really, for some time, but what is a hobbit to do when trapped on the back of a giant Eagle, many miles above ground?)

Dwalin and Dori exchange a sudden glance, then, and an explosion of fierce determination reaches her when the former plods over to where she is standing, easily picking her up (such wonderfully strong arms, all bulging muscle-) and depositing her on the eldest Ri-brother’s back. He, she knows, is the strongest of all their Company, and will easily be able to carry her – still, she cannot quite suppress the tiny squeals escaping her upon being picked up and deposited thusly (which earns her a bubble of amusement from Dwalin, and a comforting air of sympathy from Dori).

The tall warrior then moves on to support Thorin, who is suddenly swaying on his feet.

Óin glowers darkly, and the general worry intensifies once more.

Bilbo feels faintly dizzy, unable to say whether it is her or someone else that is affected-

“Kíli!” Dwalin barks and the youngest nods eagerly, gently bumping his shoulder against his brother’s before making for the stairs he has apparently spotted already. It is not the first time that Bilbo has seen the Durin family interact thusly, with barely any words necessary to understand each other. Thorin and Dwalin, she has come to comprehend, are a long-time couple. Whether they are married or not, and how such unions are looked upon by their people, she knows not, and thus does not ask. She is not even sure whether the other dwarrows of their Company know, and she most certainly does not want to spill any secrets that are not hers to share. And the boys… well. They regard the King and his Consort (or at least that is what Bilbo guesses that Dwalin will be, one day) as parents, the same exasperated but undeniably deep affection as wells up whenever their mother is mentioned clearly present in any interaction with Thorin or his beloved.

Therefore, she is not at all surprised when Kíli dashes up front, eagerly undertaking the unrewarding task of scouting ahead. He nimbly jumps down the first of the many giant steps to follow, apparently not at all uneasy about heights (not even after the very recent experience of flight). A short warning to be careful about loose slabs and pebbles, then he has vanished out of sight.

Fíli, in the meantime, quickly walks over to where his uncle and Dwalin are standing, already shifting his coat and scabbards in a way that will allow Thorin to lean onto him more easily.

(The King to be, Bilbo suspects, will not allow any but his closest family to assist him thusly.)

“I’ll go take a look at those lose stones, aye?” Bofur cheerfully proclaims, already on his way to follow Kíli. His stone sense, the hobbit has been told, is the best in all the Company, which makes him the obvious choice for finding the safest path down. Grumbling deeply Bifur moves to accompany him, and Óin eyes Thorin and Bilbo with furrowed brows.

“Great. Now let’s get the two of you down, to the closest body of water, and stripped, so that I can look at those wounds. Go!”

Climbing down that… thing ( _Carrock_ Gandalf called it, she remembers) is an experience Bilbo really could have done without. Dwarrows, she knows, are perfectly aware of where they can put their feet despite those clunky boots, as long as there is rock and stone beneath them. Still, no matter her trust in Dori and both his strength and abilities, her own fear wraps around her like unforgiving shackles drawing ever tighter, racing her heart and forcing her to hide her face in Dori’s sweaty, dirty tunic.

The ridicule and mocking she might have expected at that, however, do not come.

Dori’s gentle sympathy embraces her like a soft blanket, and Bombur’s understanding tastes like a bowl of warm, calming chicken soup. Thorin’s concern laps against her in time with the pain shuddering through him. His ache is what finally provides her with something to focus on, something to distract her from the worryingly unstable path and its disconcerting height, something to drive back the darkness dancing enticingly at the edges of her mind.

When they finally reach the base of the Carrock Bilbo means to raise her head again, take a look around, but a sudden spell of dizziness hits her and she stays pressed against Dori’s back, still clinging to his shoulders with one trembling hand.

“I found a small well,” Kíli cheerfully exclaims the moment Thorin has finally managed to make his way down the last step. “No caves though, but there’s a group of trees next to the scarp that should provide us enough shelter.”

“Well done,” Thorin tiredly praises him, and even though she does not see it Bilbo can almost feel the excited grin nearly splitting the youngest’s face in half.

Gandalf, once more, sees it as his duty to ruin the moment.

“Show us to that well, will you?” he instructs the dark-haired prince, sounding increasingly impatient. “The others can set up camp in the meantime, it will be dark soon.”

They reach the small well after a short walk, and once more Dwalin is the one to pick her up, this time depositing her on a convenient rock. He does not leave – not that she honestly expected him to, really – and with a low sigh she resigns herself to her fate when Óin trudges over to where she is sitting. It is bad enough that Thorin is here, she really would not have needed Dwalin to… well, _see_ , as well. But, it does not appear she has a choice on the matter.

Gandalf is already kneeling next to her, unbuttoning her all but ruined waistcoat with fast and unexpectedly nimble fingers. Dori, too, moves over to help him, and all Bilbo can do is hamper them as little as possible.

After that the no longer white shirt follows, Bilbo is dimly aware, knowing that her dwarrows are in for a surprise.

(And she, most likely, for a whole lot of arguing.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Boys will be boys, and Gandalf... will be Gandalf.


	3. Blue-sky thinking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I've got good and bad news:  
> My laptop broke down the day before yesterday. Stupid thing's been serviced barely two months ago and I bought it last summer, I'm beyond furious. But, and that's the good news, I've got a copy of a fairly recent version of this fanfic, so at least there wasn't too much work lost.  
> I'll try and recover as many files as possible tonight, keep your fingers crossed for me... :S

### III: Blue-sky thinking

“You’re a _lass_?”

It is as much an exclamation and a statement as it is a question, and were Bilbo not so tired, she would have rolled her eyes.

Obvious, isn’t it? Her breasts may be bound, but the shape is clear enough still.

“I don’t care what Bilbo is, don’t you go agonize him,” Óin grouches, surprisingly gentle fingers already at the cut at her side, and Thorin – suitably chastised – sinks back against the tree trunk behind him, agony still shuddering through him. His eyes, however, do not leave her, and neither do Dwalin’s. She can almost feel them (well, actually she can-) drilling into her.

Bloody _awesome_.

She really would not have minded those two staring at her after her shirt has come off in different circumstances, _really_ , but, well. Obviously, this is something else entirely, with the sizzling anger and waves of fury sloshing across the distance between them. Perhaps she would rather not know at all, she muses glumly, better not knowing than finding out just why they would be quite so upset at seeing a half-naked lass… right?

Anyway, averting one’s eyes cannot be _that_ hard, after all Dori manages easily enough-

Bilbo _yelps_ when the needle first pierces her skin.

Were she not so tired and had she not been that distracted by Thorin’s and Dwalin’s once more whipped up emotions, Óin could never have surprised her thusly. As it is, however, he has succeeded in threading a needle and placing it against her skin without her ever realizing.

New concern crashes into her upon her pained exclamation, and were she still able to think properly – really, she would have gone crazy from the churning emotions constantly changing and slamming into her by now. Even Gandalf is a huge expanse of whirling winds and darkened clouds, allowing her no reprieve from the never-ending onslaught either.

“Tharkûn,” Thorin growls, though Bilbo barely hears him over the ringing in her ears, “explain!”

“Tomorrow,” the wizard answers calmly (and it takes her longer than she will ever care to admit to realize that she has just come to know the dwarrows’ secret name for the Grey Wizard), much more calmly than he is actually feeling, and closes his larger hand around the hobbit’s small one. “You will have to wait until Bilbo is well enough to tell you the details either way, for I am not going to spill her secrets.”

“ _Her_ secrets,” Dwalin repeats unhappily, and Bilbo feels her shoulders sag.

Right.

Well, there was never really any chance that those two might actually come to feel the same as her, lass or not, was there?

Clinging to Gandalf’s large, calloused fingers she waits for Óin to be done, loitering at the edge of consciousness and unable to make sense of most of the emotions around her. (Except, of course, for Thorin’s brooding anger. That is hard to miss.) The dark spots that have been courting her vision for a while now are drawing ever closer, and she barely feels the angry hiss of pain cursing through her when the healer smears something onto the freshly stitched cut that stings quite awfully. Gandalf’s long arms wrap around her shoulders and knees, then. Distantly she registers being lifted once more and carried towards where she can feel the other dwarrows’ presence, then she finally accepts darkness’ offer-

-Waves are lapping against crumbled shores, a gently simmering pain reaching her with every surge.

The deeper waters are almost calm, but something stirs in the darkness – anger and guilt and betrayal and fear and determination. Gratefulness and awe dance across it, a faint breeze barely rippling the surface.

Deciphering Thorin’s emotions is quite easy, even if Bilbo is still half-caught in Irmo’s firm embrace. Making sense of them, however, and guessing the reasons for each? Not so much.

Dwalin is still a seething volcano, hissing and sizzling in concern. His gratefulness, unlike his King’s, is burning hot and steaming high quite openly, and that sense of wonder she first felt when jumping between the one he loves and an orc still bubbles deeply in the red-hot pool.

And she would gladly lose herself in those emotions, wrap them around her very soul and never let them go, were it not for the clear expanse of relief suddenly stretching across her.

“I’m glad you’re awake, Bilbo. You had us worried for a little while,” Gandalf murmurs, calloused fingers gently combing through her tousled (disgusting-) curls.

Sighing, Bilbo throws off the last remainders of Irmo’s tempting hold and forces her eyes open. She is still weak, she realizes, but no longer quite so close to fainting. Her side hurts too, and something awful at that. Flinching, she pulls her lips into a crooked grin.

“I’m a Took. We’re hardy folk.”

“Of that I have no doubt,” Gandalf chuckles, and helps her sit. “After all, that family has now put up with you for quite a couple of years.”

“Oy!” Bilbo playfully complains, careful not to move in any way that might pull the stitches. Gandalf, of course, knows to only mention her extended family, and not her parents. Remembering the way the snow had turned a deep crimson around Belladonna when the white wolves had finally gotten her, her skin pallid, dark eyes unseeing, and the ever so familiar emotions usually bouncing off her suddenly silent… that is a memory Bilbo has not been able to forget or suppress for many a year now, nor the one of her father growing ever paler and wilting away within months of his beloved wife’s loss. Bilbo Baggins of Bag End has long since grown used to being an eccentric, lonely bachelorette, living alone in an empty smial so full of memories, yet some ghosts are better not woken.

Travelling with the dwarrows… is like running wild with her Took cousins again, and if she allows her heart and mind to wander, well, then she sometimes almost thinks that she might come home any moment and stumble right into her mother’s waiting arms.

“Master Burglar,” Balin suddenly interrupts her thoughts, ignoring Gandalf’s glower. Bilbo can only admire the elderly dwarrow’s self-control, as he is by far not as calm as he is presenting himself. An advisor of Kings indeed. “It has come to our attention that an error has been made in regard to your gender.” He succeeds in saying this completely neutrally, with naught but a gentle smile on his lips – yet he might as well be walking on sharp shards of glass, internally wincing at every second word. (Bilbo barely manages not to flinch as well, though it is a close thing.)

“Right, Master Boggins,” Kíli cheerfully calls out, not the least bit intimidated by the social tightrope act his Companion is currently performing. “So, are you actually a lass? Or a lad born with the wrong parts?”

That earns him a round of exasperated glances and a whack around the head from Fíli, which he accepts with an easy grin.

Bilbo, however, looks at him with surprise clear in her deep blue eyes. “That is… accepted, amongst your people?” she hesitantly asks, treading as carefully now as Balin did.

Bofur shrugs. “Sure, why wouldn’t it be? I mean, it’s a little harder for lads who were born as lasses, as we have a deeply ingrained need, an instinct almost, to protect our dams and keep them from any harm that might befall them, since we’ve got so few to begin with, and they’re often expected to bear children none the less for the same reasons, but other than that? It’s not much of a problem. The biggest hassle, really, is getting a new name, and that’s it.”

Bilbo exhales deeply, looking at them with wide eyes. Being half-Took, and as such more of a freethinker than most hobbits, she has always suspected that her own people might be rather narrow-sighted in many a regard, but to see such easy and open acceptance is both baffling and unsettling none the less.

“I take it this kind of occurrence is not looked well upon amongst hobbits?” Dori kindly asks, and she mutely shakes her head.

“Are you one, then? A lad, I mean?” Kíli is once more the one to pose the impertinent question.

Bilbo clears her throat before shaking her head again. “Ah, no. I’m… I’m a lass, but, well. I never really enjoyed the role the Shire expects women to play. Not that such rebelling against long established rules was… taken particularly kindly to.” She uneasily averts her gaze then, and Gandalf rests a comforting hand heavily on her shoulder. The angry thunderclouds gathering, she knows, are directed at her fellow hobbits. “I got away with wearing trousers, though, seeing as I could explain them away with being easier to run in, which my mother’s family accepted pretty easily. They, too, gave me the name Bilbo… it was meant as teasing, and taken up by most other hobbits when my parents died and I came of age and still refused to wear skirts and do my hair.”

“It was not good-natured teasing then,” Dwalin grumbles angrily, red magma simmering with fury, and what is Bilbo to say to that? He is, after all, painfully right.

“I… don’t mind it, though, and actually prefer it over the one my parents gave me.”

“Which would be?” This time Fíli is the one to ask, both brothers’ eyes glowing with excitement.

Bilbo squints her eyes. “I will tell you,” she begins, staring down one after the other of her Companions, “if you swear to never _ever_ use it.” She ends with Thorin and Dwalin, glowering at them until even they nod their compliance. “And I mean it – if you call me by that name, I will kick you. Hard. And I know _exactly_ where to kick to make it hurt,” she promises them (ignoring the sudden pearls of amusement welling up in most of her dwarrows), before squaring her shoulders. “My mother named me Bluebell for the shade of my eyes, and if any of you laugh I will remember and I will take gruesome vengeance once I’m able to move again,” she unashamedly threatens, which leads to a number of hands being clapped across opening mouths. She still senses their growing amusement, of course, but that they are honestly trying is more than enough for her. “It’s a Took family tradition, naming your daughters after flowers. She herself was called Belladonna, and her eyes were dark as the berries of a deadly nightshade perennial.”

Upon seeing (and feeling) her Companions’ utter confusion she cannot help but laugh herself.

“Atropa belladonna, the deadly nightshade,” she explains (Gandalf’s own amusement sparkling like stars in a nightly sky), still snickering. That, however, pulls at her stiches, which shuts her up rather effectively.

Balin nods wisely, stroking through his thick beard. “Many dwarrows are named after precious gems and metals,” he says, an air of calm around him once more. “It is not that far-fetched an idea that a people as fond of all things growing as yours would follow similar traditions as well. We will not speak of your true name to anyone, Miss Baggins, if that is what you wish. Is Bilbo your officially accepted name then?”

“It is,” she nods, smiling slightly. “Don’t worry, I wouldn’t have used it to sign the contract otherwise.”

The elderly advisor chuckles softly, and winks at her. “I always enjoy discussing such matters with fellow scholars.”

Ori perks up at that, while Kíli snorts.

“Scholar my arse – did you see her lunge at that orc? I thought you never held a weapon before, at least I got that impression with the way you were eyeing that letter opener when Gandalf gave it to you. So where did you learn that?”

Bother.

“That,” Gandalf smoothly intervenes, “is a story for another evening. Perhaps we should talk of lighter matters for now, and allow Bilbo to finally eat her dinner.” The latter is accompanied by a wind of stern admonishment and Bofur nods cheerfully, jumping up to get her a serving of the delicious stew Bombur has managed to cook up with what meagre supplies they have left.

Raising her head Bilbo looks up towards the stars glinting above the tree crowns, and wonders how long she must have slept, for it to be so dark again already.

“There ye go, lass,” Bofur pulls her from her thoughts, handing her a roughly carved bowl and a simple spoon. He watches her eat, then, his emotions a simple song of contentment as he whittles away at a piece of wood.

“Will they…” Bilbo clears her throat, eyes focussed on the fire, before trying again. “Will they… treat me differently, now?”

Bofur shrugs one shoulder, the clear chords of agreement so open and honest she barely knows how to deal with them. “Probably,” he admits easily. “Like I said, ‘tis deeply ingrained. I’m rather sure Thorin is trying to drown himself in guilt that you got hurt on his watch, and trying to save him at that – you know him, he’ll take any chance to brood.” And just why does he sound so cheerful saying that? “Dwalin too, he’s the Consort after all.” And that answers another question, doesn’t it? “He’s sworn to always protect Thorin, that he needed a dam’s help… well, I imagine it’s eating away at him.”

“You can expect a lot more respect, though,” Nori butts in from her other side, and she almost jumps to her feet in fright. (Which hurts something awful, thank you very much-) “Don’t take me wrong, our dams are fierce and rather fearsome, but they rarely ever leave behind what homes they have claimed for themselves. That’s instinct, too, and the reason you’ll find so very few dwarrowdams outside a mountain.”

“So, I expect we’ll all be rather reluctant to let you run into any danger, especially since ye’ve been hurt already.”

She raises her eyebrows at that, asking rather drily: “You are aware that you hired me to steal from a dragon, right?”

Bofur pales dramatically and a terrified hitch distorts his merry song, but still manages to snort.

Nori, too, huffs. In amusement. “Yeah, well, that’s a discussion we’ll have to revisit once we’ve reached the mountain. Don’t worry, though, if any of us get too oppressive, just kick us like you promised, and we’ll leave you alone,” he adds, cackling, then rises and pulls Bofur along with him.

Bilbo is left staring into the fire for many more a minute, chewing over everything she has learned about her dwarrows that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like I said, dwarves are way more sensible than hobbits. Well. Sometimes. Yes. :D
> 
> Before I started writing this fic I spent _hours_ searching for flower names starting with "B" that I could use as a first name for Bilbo.  
>  I didn't like any of them :D  
> But, well, Bluebell was the compromise, since I can totally imagine hobbits choosing that name for their daughters, and the justification for that choice was the blue eyes. So, that's how this title happened... ^^


	4. Blue morning, Blue day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a little on the short side - sorry for that! - and it's the kind of piece that ran away from me and refused to be written any other way... so, be prepared for overreacting hobbits _and_ dwarves. O_o
> 
> The title is a song by Foreigner.

### IV: Blue morning, Blue day

“Little bunny,” Beorn proclaims the moment he lays eyes on her.

Bilbo has already opened her mouth to protest, but then she feels the giant bear (which turns out to be terribly, _wonderfully_ fluffy) that makes up his simple, instinct-driven and almost animalistic emotions slide up next to her and rub its huge head against hers in a clear beg for cuddles, and her sharp answer melts from her tongue.

“I’m a hobbit,” is all she says on the matter, smiling up at him, and ignores the incredulity bubbling up in most of her dwarrows.

“I know, little bunny,” Beorn nods, reaching out a giant hand to help her up onto one of the terribly oversized benches without unsettling her still rather raw wound too much. “Breakfast?”

“Oh yes, _please_ ,” she moans, eyes already roaming over the table laden with plates of freshly baked bread and bowls of honey and slabs of butter and jars of milk-

She almost misses the instant and rather violent surge of white-hot – arousal? – that reaches her from across the table, where Dwalin is sitting. It is, however, closely followed by a clear, cruel explosion of _shame_ , and Bilbo falters.

“Eat,” Beorn gently instructs her, giant nose carefully nudging her attention back towards her plate, and pours milk into a cup, sliding it over to her.

Nodding slightly she forcefully draws the perimeter of her gift’s reach close around herself (a skill only very few hobbits ever learn, having no need for it – but the incredible, suffocating, terrible, disgusting- … _sympathy_ that everyone had felt around her after her father’s death had been an excellent, if ruthless, teacher), successfully pushing both Dwalin and Thorin from it. Resorting to this measure usually makes her feel terribly cold and alone, having grown up with familiar affect all around her like any other hobbit, but Beorn’s strong, gentle emotions are still snuggling up against her, providing her with an unexpected and greatly welcomed sense of peaceful comfort.

She digs into the delicious, if simple, meal with an enthusiasm to put even Bombur to shame, having lived off travel rations and a scant three meals a day for so many weeks now, and sternly does not allow her eyes to stray even close to where Thorin and Dwalin are sitting. She will not allow her ridiculous feelings for them to ruin this wonderful breakfast, thank you very much.

Beorn watches her eat with attentive, knowing eyes, before glowering at the group of dwarrows sitting around his huge table, talking quietly amongst themselves.

“You starved little bunny,” he suddenly accuses, quite sharply, and Bilbo startles painfully.

“No, they didn’t,” she hurries to assure both them and him, now even more thankful for the current restriction of her sixth sense, allowing her to avoid the colourful combination of emotions that no doubt wells up upon this proclamation. Thorin’s eyebrows, at any rate, are already on their way to a most impressive scowl. Perfect.

“Hobbits,” Gandalf calmly interjects, “eat seven meals a day. There are few things they enjoy more than good food and good company, and as such they have built most of their lives around those two features. Bilbo, however, is well able to make do with what you gave her, even if it is far less than what she would be used to.”

Darting the wizard a dark glance – she is well able to speak for herself, thank you very much! – Bilbo nods, gulping down the morsel she has just shoved into her mouth. “You most certainly didn’t starve me!” she adds, eyes once more roaming over the laid-out food.

Granted, she has lost a few pounds, but that was to be expected on an adventure half-way across Middle-Earth, wasn’t it?

Beorn grumbles unhappily, but nods in acceptance, and Bilbo quite suddenly wonders how he knows so much about hobbits, given that most people have never even heard of them?

“You should’ve told us!” Dwalin grouches from across the table, apparently not as accepting of Gandalf’s explanation and Bilbo’s claims as Beorn. This time she does roll her eyes, reaching for the honey pot. Really, if they are so fed up about her not having gotten enough to eat – the least they could do was to actually allow her to make up for that now! As much as she would have liked to ignore those ridiculous dwarrows, however, she is still a respectable hobbit, a Baggins of Bag End, and as such she will offer up answers when she would much rather be stuffing herself. Sighing deeply, she calls up the image of Lobelia before her eyes, imagining this to be one of the many fervently-loathed tea-times she has had to sit through with her cousin in-law. Immediately, her shoulders snap back (even though that hurts quite insistently) and a polite, cold smile crawls onto her lips.

“And what, Master Dwalin,” she asks coolly, “would have come of such a complaint on my part, seeing as how incapable and how much of a burden you already thought me? I do not imagine my request for more food, forcing you others to go hungry on my behalf, would have gone over well!”

“So you just chose to go hungry on _our_ behalf instead?” the tall warrior asks incredulously, visibly shaken by her change in demeanour and some undertone to his voice she cannot quite decipher, without the aid of her sixth sense. “Besides, it would’ve, if you’d just told us you’re a lass!”

At that Bilbo’s brows climb impossibly high, and her eyes grow cold as well. “Oh yes, you were all so very welcoming to me, making me wish desperately to spill all my secrets.” Distantly she registers the wide-eyed surprise (and fear, in the boys’ and Ori’s cases) upon her sharp and perfectly polite sarcasm in her dwarrows’ faces. They have not had to sit through a never-ending series of particularly unpleasant family dinners, have they? “Besides, I – like all other lasses from the Shire – was repeatedly told that most outsiders do not treat women notably well. I was not going to risk such a reaction before I knew you better.”

“And instead chose to deceive us, allowing us to treat you as we did and putting yourself in danger when we should’ve never permitted you to do so!”

Bilbo gasps for air, drawing herself to her full height (which is not all that impressive, to be honest, but – in combination with her angry glower and furiously furled brows – has the desired effect none the less) and drills her deep, icy eyes into the warrior’s. Next to her, both Gandalf and Beorn are trying their honest best to hide their gloating amusement. “Now listen here, Master Dwalin, and listen closely! I am perfectly able to take care of myself. I have signed a contract that obliges me to steal from your dragon” and oh, that was a clever move, reminding them of what end they have in store for her, “and accept Master Thorin as the leader of this party, but other than that I am more than entitled to make my own decisions, be they to not tell you what I do not wish to share about my life, or to risk myself in order to save your King and beloved’s life.” She lifts her chin, then, before taking a calculated sip of milk. (The clumsy mug makes it strategically less effective than sipping from an elegant tea-cup, but it does not miss its mark still.)

For a few long moments Dwalin sits frozen still, the emotions playing across his face (and she has never been more thankful that pain and desperation have taught her the skill of drawing her gift closer to encompass but herself) warring between shock (at having been dressed down thusly, and by a tiny hobbit lass at that?), merciless fear (for Thorin’s life?), boiling anger (well, that one is obvious), confused uncertainty (on how to proceed?) and simmering annoyance (not used to having others object so strongly?). Then he, too, squares his shoulders, and most of their Companions look on in trepidation – Beorn’s bear, however, is growling threateningly.

“It was a mistake, then, to accept you as our burglar.” That he states clearly and coldly, without any doubt or hesitance audible to his voice, and Bilbo does not flinch.

She does. _Not_. Flinch.

That, however, is quite the feat, and demands most of what little self-control she has left after sitting with a dull, stinging pain her ever-loyal companion for so long. Óin is going to kill her, she thinks distantly, even as she gulps deeply. Shoulders still a cruel, confident line, she takes another sip of her milk. Much less calculated than last time, but a move of strategy still – they need not see her shaking lips.

The formerly so delicious liquid suddenly tastes stale on her tongue.

Think of Lobelia, she forcefully and mercilessly reminds herself, of what she would say about Mother the moment she was dead. Remember how you imagined skewering her not with words but with weapons-

“You should have thought of that possibility before having me sign that contract, then,” she coolly reminds him, finally averting her eyes and putting that mug down with an air of finality. (An art her grandmother had brought to perfection, for none dared continue any discussion once she had put her teacup down.) Next to her Beorn really is growling now, and Gandalf appears to attempt killing Dwalin with mere glares, however, she pays them no attention and instead focusses on finishing her breakfast. It tastes like wool on her numb tongue, dry and never-ending, but she will not waste a perfectly good meal. Who knows when she will have an opportunity like this again?

Beorn’s emotions, no matter his dark countenance, are still padding around her and gently rubbing their head against hers like a giant, overgrown cat in a bear’s body might, and, desperate to avert her attention from Dwalin’s words, she suddenly understands.

There are very strict rules when it comes to the use of one’s empathic abilities in the Shire, and very good reasons for all of them. The law that forbids every hobbit to speak of that very special gift is one of them, brought forth not only by their deep knowledge of the greed, deceit and evil that lurks within the hearts of men, but also by a few dramatic incidents. Bilbo, however, is beginning to understand that not all talk folk are the same, after having met Elrond and Beorn, after having felt their pure, honest wish to help. Still, the reason that none outside the Shire (except for Gandalf, apparently, but he has always been a good friend and protector of the hobbits, and always had this unfortunate habit of prying into matters others really would have preferred him to leave alone) know of the sixth sense Yavanna has bestowed upon her children is that none are _ever told_ of it. As such, it is quite the mystery to her that Beorn obviously knows, and provides comfort in a manner that clearly suggests it is not the first time, but right now – she does not care. At all.

Suddenly terribly tired again she allows herself to slowly lean against the strong, fluffy bear, wrapping his warmth and gentleness around her small shoulders like a blanket and burying her face in the soft fur as she closes her eyes, no longer looking at the crumbs left on her plate.

She really is not hungry anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...yeah, like I said. Overreacting hobbits and dwarves ^^
> 
> So, my files are probably lost -.- But, fortunately, the variations I made to this fic after saving the version I now have were minimal (I think), and I did manage to recover my possible-titles-list, so at least, whily my uni-stuff was lost, this wasn't - gotta prioritize :p  
> Anyway, on a happier note: I thought of increasing my posting frequency, since the chapters are overall rather short... what do you think? I'd try to upload on Thursdays, too, but I can't promise that I'll manage every week.


	5. Going Blue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promised you chapters on (some) Thursdays - here we go ;)
> 
> A little on the short side, and a bit of a filler, but I hope you'll enjoy it none the less :)

### V: Going Blue

They journey through Mirkwood is very much the opposite of “nice, charming and comfortable” (and yes, she is well aware that Beorn’s choice of words was sarcasm-inspired, thank you very much), in many, _many_ ways.

There is, of course, the obvious – dark forest populated by spiders that enjoy killing and eating pilgrims, no sunlight filtering through the thick, sickly foliage even at daytime, unpleasant shivers trickling down one’s spine and alerting every flight instinct, distinct possibility of not-so-well-meaning elves making an appearance, re-stocked food stores dwindling with every passing day, and so forth – but that, unfortunately, is not all.

Bilbo has not allowed her sixth sense to escape from the tight hold keeping it wrapped around herself ever since she carefully tried to, uh, test the waters (or rather magmata) the day after her dispute with Dwalin, only to dive straight into a rather… deterring (and quite hurtful, but, well) pool of red-hot anger and loathing. She had not stayed there long enough to make out any details, instead forcefully and desperately tearing her sense’s reach back around herself.

And ever since they left Beorn’s place, the gentle bear slowly but steadily sliding from her reach as she drew it out to wrap around but the two of them for as long as she could until he was finally _gone_ , she has been feeling as cold and alone as she did all those years ago, after her father’s death.

Only this time, there are not even the halls of a familiar – if ghost-filled – home to comfort her, naught but dank forest and dying earth beneath her feet-

(Gandalf, she tiredly thinks, must not know of her ability to thusly draw close the reach of her sense at least, which means he actually was not aware of what loneliness he was condemning her to when he left them before entering the forest.)

There is nothing she wishes to do more desperately than to break her self-imposed isolation, to feel Thorin’s gentle waves lap against her once more, to hear Bofur’s cheerful song and read Ori’s carefully scripted words, but – what if they are not gentle and cheerful and well-meant? What if she will encounter but hatred and disdain once more, like during those first days of their Quest?

No, that is not a risk she is willing to take.

And as such she trudges after the others, arms wrapped around herself in a desperate attempt to stave off a cold lingering in her bones and heart that not worldly heat can scare away, and barely realizing the worried glances occasionally sent her way no matter how they grow more frequent with every passing day, unsure if she has interpreted them correctly in this twilight that barely allows her to see. She is Bilbo Baggins of Bag End, and she has signed a contract to help them reclaim their home, and she will see this through, no matter how miserable she might be feeling at the moment… and that conviction, of course, is what gets her into trouble the very moment the blasted spiders show up.

Having barely exchanged a word with her dwarrows except for what was necessary it takes her longer than she will ever be able to excuse (even though that thrice-cursed forest’s damning influence ought to weaken that claim after all) to realize that they are… well, gone.

Barely having the presence of mind to _not_ rush off shouting their names she takes the time to push the magical ring she found beneath Goblin Town onto her finger, shuddering when she delves into that cold, cruel world of wraiths and shadows, before slowly – carefully – loosening the tight hold she had on her empathy, allowing its reach to gradually expand and return to the usual measures once more.

It takes her a little to get used to the silence that should _never_ be felt inside a forest, the trees and plants almost deadly quiet instead of the gentle thrumming she knows from the Shire, and barely any animals in the vicinity. The sensation is unsettling enough that she almost misses the crude webbing, no matter its glaring unpleasantness, that is attempting to wrap itself around her Companions’ familiar emotions a few paces down the path.

It appears that the spiders have found them after all.

Cursing lowly Bilbo darts towards where she can feel her dwarrows’ muddled pain and foggy fear, carefully drawing her weapon.

The webbing-like emotions of the spiders are something she knows she will have trouble reading and interpreting, but there is nothing to it. This – fighting a foe she cannot decipher – _is_ a risk she will have to take.

Nimbly, she climbs onto a low branch of a stunted tree, and takes a deep breath before plunging the tip of her elvish dagger into the first spider’s behind, where the shell appears to be weak to her untrained eye. The creature _screeches_ in a way that makes her toenails curl, the webbing shaking and crumbling into a ball of dead, white threads before dissolving altogether. And as one spider drops to the floor, the others turn to search for Bilbo.

Well, bother.

Within a moment’s notice she has come to the conclusion that drawing the arachnoids away from her trapped Companions before releasing them will be the best course of action, and quickly grabs a stone to throw as far as she manages. Her side is hurting something fiercely, not yet completely healed and absolutely not excited about the amount of moving and pulling she is currently putting it through, but she still forces herself to dash forward and stab another spider (into the many eyes, this time), only to almost end up within the claws of third one. Barely succeeding at evading the shaking, dripping, _venomous_ net of crude, hateful emotions threatening to wrap around her she drops into a clumsy roll (and, oh, that _hurts_ -), before scrambling back to her feet and managing to – though mostly by accident – bury her small blade through the gaping mouth and within the last spider’s throat.

For a few moments she stands frozen, hands braced on her knees and desperately drawing for breath as the half-way healed gash at her side throbs painfully, before forcing herself to make back for where she can feel the dwarrows’ woolly emotions.

Oh for Yavanna’s sake – poison, _really_? As if it were not bad enough that these spiders have sharp claws and hard shells and come in ridiculously high numbers-

Lowly ranting to herself she stomps over to the thirteen cocoons dangling from low branches, once more scaling the tree and carefully cutting more and more threads of the first webbing prison until the dwarrow’s weight finally becomes too great for the remaining ones to carry and Fíli is lowered to the ground relatively gently. Well, gently enough in any case, she ascertains in grim amusement. Dwarrows, after all, have skulls like rock and stone.

Quickly cutting Kíli and Bofur free as well she climbs back down, ripping and tearing at the cocoons until the surprisingly resilient structure is broken and the first three dwarrows wriggle free from their confinements.

And isn’t this lovely, that they are deathly pale and horribly sluggish in their movements?

Almost regretting that she did not make those spiders’ deaths more painful when she would have had the chance to – she will never be a proper hobbit again, with proper hobbity emotions, will she? – Bilbo scrambles up the next tree, limbs heavy and side throbbing, in order to cut down Bombur and Glóin. The three down on the ground, at least, are still in good enough shape to take care of the releasing-part, and Bilbo hurriedly tugs the ring off her finger.

She almost falls off her branch, then, this sudden leap back into the real non-wraith world nearly too much to deal with.

(Well, to be honest, she _does_ fall off the branch, and it is Bofur’s surprisingly alert reflexes that safe her-)

Ignoring the miner’s worried inquiries she takes a deep breath before pulling herself up to yet another low branch and climbing up to the higher one Bifur, Dwalin, Dori and Nori are bound to, carefully cutting them down as well. (And if she misjudges the threads connecting Dwalin’s cocoon to the tree a little, sending the warrior down rather a little faster than she planned to, well. Then none of those already freed say anything on the matter, not that they have to. Bilbo already feels bad enough without any outside help.) Before any of the others can stop her she has already moved on to the next branch, Dwalin’s emotions becoming clearer and more frantic by the moment, and she really does not know how to deal with them right now-

Ori, Balin and Óin come down easily enough.

She has only just begun to carefully cut through the threads of the last cocoon in an attempt to free Thorin as well, having – quite sneakily – crept down that other tree and up this one, when a worried hitch in Bofur’s song reaches her.

“Bilbo! Ye’re bleedin’ again!”

Not much of a surprise, really, Bilbo quite sarcastically thinks, ignoring the concern sloshing and swashing against her at that exclamation and cautiously severing thread after thread until – finally! – Thorin, too, sinks to the ground. Dwalin quickly jumps forward to tear open the cocoon, and Bilbo honestly means to climb down and face Bofur’s worry and Dori’s fussing and Óin’s admonishments, but-

Well, the arrival of more spiders, and a troop of elves, and Bilbo’s (most Tookish) quick response of sliding that ring back onto her finger quite as well as snapping her reach back to wrap but around herself, thwart any plans along these lines.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (We're getting somewhere, if slowly. I promise.)


	6. She’s got the Blues

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Metaphores? What metaphores?

### VI: She’s got the Blues

The Elvenking’s dungeons, Bilbo muses glumly, are not a fun place to be. (Better still, though, than any place up above ground in that thrice-cursed forest.) Maybe, if she had enough to eat to properly feed herself, or if she were not caught in the wraith-like world of her curious little ring, or if her Companions were not locked up with no hope of escaping – maybe then she would have been able to even enjoy the ageless beauty that appears to be an expected feature of an elven lair, even of one trapped underneath ever-spreading darkness. As it is, however, she has spent the last three days barely eating or sleeping, stumbling through the confusing halls and passageways in a desperate attempt to both avoid detection and find her dwarrows, and as such has little love nor patience for the architecture of this place.

She came across the Elvenking, too, trapped in the distorted world of wraiths and shadows the ring provides her access to. For a long, never-ending moment she contemplated extending her gift’s reach – drawn as closely to her own skin as was possible the moment the elven troop made their appearance in the forest – to include him, Thranduil Oropherion, and perhaps gather information about this place or her dwarrows’ whereabouts-

Then she had seen his pale eyes search the room, as if he were looking for one he thought to be there, and Bilbo had fled, not daring to reach out for his emotions (no matter how cold she might have been).

Who knows what witchcraft that King might be capable of? Perhaps allowing her sixth sense to brush against him would be enough to alert him of her presence-

Finding the others, it turns out, should not have been that much of a challenge. It had been simple bad luck that had made her choose different corridors, different guards to follow, leading her on an exhausting chase for peace of mind in this maze of walkways and shadows.

She might have expected them to be separated, too, perhaps scattered across the cells and dungeons as far as possible, in order to avoid any organized strategizing and plotting on their part. So, really, running into them all at once is quite a surprise – though most certainly not an unwelcome one. Exhaling in desperate relief she slumps against the wall of the corridor leading up to the lock-ups where Thorin and Balin are currently conversing in low, intent Khuzdul, with Bofur humming a rather aggressive tune a few cells down.

Allowing herself to close her eyes for but a moment she then presses into a natural nook provided by the wall of the first cell jutting out into the walkway and makes herself as comfortable as is possible on the cold, hard ground, ready to wait for nightfall. Even though she has a little way of telling time in this underground lair of constant twilight she has gathered, from snippets of conversations and experience, that sunset marks the changing of the guards, which usually means a bare minimum of elves still wandering the halls and corridors, and a much larger number being positioned at the few entrances to the elven Kingdom as well as assigned to patrols securing the perimeter in the woods outside.

The deep bell tolling that signals the changing of the colours yanks her from the doze she has sunk into and, berating herself for her inattention, Bilbo scrambles to her feet – barely in time to avoid the brisk formation of the three guards taking over the night shift.

After exchanging a few crisp, melodious words they part ways, moving on into different directions.

The hobbit waits for a few more moments, still hidden in the realm of wraith and shadow, until they have moved well out of sight. She quickly removes the ring, then, and stumbles right up to Thorin’s cell.

The reaction to her appearance comes instantly, and far more subdued than she might have expected of her stone-skulled dwarrows.

“Bilbo!” Thorin gasps, eyes wide with incredible relief, and immediately the whisper, ever wary of the guard’s disappearance mere minutes ago, goes down the corridor. Their leader stares at her, surprise clear in the blue depths, before his brows begin to furrow. “Bilbo,” he says again, much more unhappily this time, “you have to go see Óin! He’s six cells down the path-” and his eyes stray down to the dark stain at her side.

Bilbo’s nose twitches in annoyance, but – after sullenly eyeing him for a few moments – she complies with sagging shoulders. Her wound really does not feel too good.

Squaring her shoulders, she marches down the corridor under the intent eyes of every dwarrow she passes. Balin has buried his fingers in his thick, white beard as if in concern or frustration, but looks far more at ease than she would have expected when he winks at her. Bofur and Ori she gives the most comforting smiles she can muster when they stare at her in unhidden worry, and Dwalin – well, that cell she walks past without raising her gaze from the smooth floor. She is tired, and hungry, and cold, and so wrung-out she does not trust herself to not start crying if he even looks at her the wrong way, let alone opens his mouth. Then she reaches Fíli, who is pressed against the bars of his cell and looking at her with such terrible fear in his eyes that she cannot help but stray from her intended path and wrap small fingers around his larger ones clinging to the cold metal.

They are barely more than _children_ , for Yavanna’s sake, did those blasted elves really have to separate them?

“Don’t you look at me like that,” she gently chastises him, “I’ll get you out of here! Granted, I may need a little more time to come up with an acceptable escape plan, seeing as how long it took me to find you in the first place, but I’d never abandon you to this fate!”

“I- … I know, Bilbo,” Fíli whispers, voice wavering just the tiniest bit. “It’s just… I need to see Kíli and make sure he’s okay! And everyone was so worried for you after Bofur told us how you were bleeding again, we didn’t even know where you were. We were… beginning to think that the spiders must’ve gotten to you after all since- … since- …”

“I’m alright, Fíli,” she tries her best to soothe him, smiling as warmly as she manages with the cold that has eaten so deeply into her heart.

Both of them know that is more a lie than a euphemism (she is well aware of how terrible she must be looking after those last few days), but he nods anyway and a cautious smile makes it onto his lips.

“Thorin and Dwalin were going crazy,” he lowly admits, wild eyes roaming over what must be dark rings the colour of aubergines underneath hers, and a rather unappealing pallor. There is a valid reason she has avoided taking the ring off whenever she passed a mirror, relative safety or no. “I don’t know what they would’ve done if you hadn’t shown up-”

And just _why_ did he pick those two particular dwarrows?

Bilbo would ask, she really would, if she believed she could deal with the answer.

“You have to take care of yourself, Bilbo,” he suddenly begs, eyes wide and beseeching. “It would be… painful for all of us to lose you, but I’m not sure Dwalin and Uncle would… get over it.” This time, she does almost ask after all. Or rather she would, if it were not for the young dwarrow to suddenly draw back from the bars and, after squeezing her so much smaller fingers for another moment, nod at her with wide-eyed urgency. “You really should go and see Óin – I’m alright, I promise. Don’t worry about me!”

Bilbo eyes him for a few more moments, rather surprised by the sudden change in demeanour, but figures she really must look something terrible.

Nodding slowly, she moves on, to the bars Óin is already leaning against, glowering darkly the moment he realizes the state she is in. Awesome – Bilbo can barely imagine anything she might enjoy more than being fussed over and clucked at by a bunch of ridiculously anxious dwarrows. Snorting a little at her own sarcasm (and here the healer’s deafness most certainly works to her advantage, most likely sparing her questions on why she is talking to herself now) she allows the elderly dwarrow to drag her close against the bars, already pulling up the seam of both her waistcoat and shirt to examine her wound. It is quite indecent, really, thusly standing in the open and being so impatiently undressed, and she might even have blushed and spluttered indignantly, if not for the sudden flare of pain when a blunt finger gently prods against the margins of the cut.

He cusses lowly, further deepening her assumption that the last few days have not done her wound any favours – it may be considered pathetic cowardice by her dwarrows, but she really does not want to peek at that would, _really_. It is enough to know how it feels, she is perfectly happy without knowing what it looks like-

“I don’t have much of my equipment left,” Óin grumbles, voice low enough that he himself probably would not have heard, and looks up at her from where he is half-crouched over her hip, head pressed against the bars and eyes partly hidden by his bushy eyebrows. She cannot read any emotions in them from this angle, can even less <>feel any, but what worry and remorse she hears in his deep voice is more than enough. “I’m almost tempted to send you to the elves with how this is looking, but as they were the ones who took my gear in the first place, and I _really_ don’t trust them, I’ll do my best with what I have. Try not to look, and bite down on something, aye? Oh, and could you hold your clothes for me?”

Nodding mutely Bilbo pulls the collar of her all but ruined shirt up and into her mouth before reaching around herself to gather up the fabric above her wound, reaching the other hand out to wrap around one of the bars.

“Eh, and best sit down, lassie,” Óin adds, helping her down, before drawing something from – an inside pocket of his singlet? Now that cannot be comfortable! The something turns out to be a small leather case filled with sharp, pointy metal objects, and Bilbo quickly averts her gaze. She knows, if this turns out to be unbearable she could always-

The pain comes unexpectedly and mercilessly, and it is all she can do not to _scream_.

Eyes wide and tears already spilling she hesitates for but one more moment before releasing the tight hold she had on her sixth sense, allowing it to spread out like it should once more. The moment it passes across her imprisoned Companions she is swamped with a great surge of emotions, successfully and ruthlessly distracting her from the pain in her side and the cold in her heart.

Perched on the hard ground next to her, though locked behind unforgiving bars, Óin is a calm, steady stream of tight concentration, easily navigating the occasional shoal of worry and a waterfall of stiffening fear left far behind by now.

One cell down in each direction Fíli and Kíli are each a cacophony of voices crying out, in fear and pain and worry, either boy’s deafening relief almost drowned out by them. Reaching out to Dori feels like stepping back into her smial (or perhaps a comfortable suite beneath a mountain), warm welcome drawing her into a calming embrace, and relief lingering in the thick blankets and fluffy pillows on the settee – Bilbo does not, however, miss the door down the hall, still opened a crack, that leads into a dark pit of fear and anguish. Next to him Nori is re-sharpening blunted blades, their edges straight and gleaming once more. Where Beorn was a bear Bifur is a badger, though not as clear or distinct as the shapeshifter, curling into a peaceful corner in a desperate attempt to shut out the world now that he has regained the peace of mind to do so. Glóin, too, is shining and tinkling with relief (even though the gaping maw of anger and impatience both is hard to miss), and Bombur… well. Bilbo has always enjoyed feeling the rotund dwarrow’s gentle emotions touch her own, for few – except for maybe Dori – make her feel at home as he does. A hearty stew is simmering over a steady flame, with big junks of joy and solace making it taste of a huge, warm embrace. (Bilbo, though, does not miss the traces of sharp, biting trepidation either.) On Fíli’s other side Dwalin-

Well.

Dwalin… is a seething pool of fear and concern and anger and self-loathing, and a barely molten boulder of crippling, terrifying, all-encompassing _pain_ \- … and the relief of seeing her _alive_ , if in such a condition, feels like an eruption, suddenly reaching her from all sides, burning and suffocating and beautiful.

Bilbo… does not know what to feel, how to react to that. After Dwalin’s explosion at Beorn’s table she was so convinced that he’d rather be rid of her, would have preferred she stay with the skin-changer so her survival would no longer be a burden he had to carry-

Fleeing seems like an excellent choice in the face of being so overwhelmed, and she stretches her reach further down the corridor in an attempt to let the others’ emotions drown out Dwalin’s when she knows not how to deal with them.

Ori’s scribbling is neat and clean once more, relief clear in the slanting letters and clever wording, with only a few lines wobbly due to worry anymore, and Bofur’s song is as cheerful and exuberant as it ought to be, barely any chords out of tune. The gentle winds of Balin’s emotion dance soothingly across her face, tousling her hair with gentle relief and drying her tears.

And Thorin…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I know, this was a little filler-y again. That's the obvious downside of quite so short chapters...


	7. The sea! The sea! The open sea! The Blue, the fresh, the ever free!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title is a quote by Bryan Proctor.  
> (And yes, it's unnecessarily long :p )

### VII: The sea! The sea! The open sea! The Blue, the fresh, the ever free!

Thorin’s emotions are, once more, an angry sea of whipped-up waves, though Bilbo begins to suspect that is not necessarily due to any negativity, but simply the deep, unrestrained way the King feels everything. The deep waters are churning with more sentiments than she can give name to, though a few are clear enough:

Much like Dwalin, Thorin’s fear is plain and prominent, an undercurrent ever-present – what amazes Bilbo about it, however, is the unmistakable shape of her own face in the patterns drawn into the sand on the seabed. It is not the boys he thusly fears for, not Dwalin or his Company, not the state of their Quest or that of his mountain or even their chances of survival once they reach the dragon – it is _her_.

For a few moments Bilbo sits frozen in shock, astonished by that realization, before she dares to carefully dig deeper.

His anger, much like his Consort’s, is clear in the whipped-up waves, as well as the self-loathing (though that, she fears, might just be part of Thorin’s personality). As for the pain… the giant, terrifying maelstrom in the centre is hard to miss, now that she is looking for it. It is, however, shrinking before her very eyes, the all-encompassing agony so similar to Dwalin’s diminishing and the waters calming with every breath he takes.

Bilbo allows herself a healthy moment of hesitation before taking a deep breath and diving right in (and that costs her quite some self-conquest – emotional landscape or no, she has never been fond of deep waters, like most hobbits), closing her eyes when the swirling currents take a hold of her and pull her along. The centre of the maelstrom is something she cannot quite decipher, having no concept of what this _One_ might be, but the fact that the pain stems from having thought it lost is clear enough. What-

“Bilbo?”

The sudden roar of concern stemming from Óin tears her from the depths of Thorin’s emotions. Oh, she knows well how risky it is, allowing oneself to be lost that far in another, for there is little attention left to focus on the out-side world in that state. Bilbo, however, cannot bring herself to care when the dull pain in her side registers, more than grateful she was distracted from whatever the healer did.

Óin is watching her with dark, keen eyes that seem to miss no single movement.

“You’re very brave, lassie. You hobbits must be exceptional creatures.”

Blushing deeply Bilbo stares into his knowing eyes, before averting her gaze. “Ah… not really,” she answers truthfully, barely loud enough to be heard by him. “We’re actually the very opposite of exceptional… and of brave.”

He watches her intently for a few more moments, before his lips twitch into a small smile half-hidden by his beard. “Then that makes you all the braver. We’re mighty lucky, it seems, to have found you. You should go and talk to Thorin, and Dwalin,” he then adds, making her pale before she has the chance to blush even more deeply. He chuckles softly at that, gentle hands pulling her bloodied garments from her numb fingers and back down to cover her side again. “I know them rather well, lassie. Dwalin and Balin are my cousins, our fathers were brothers, and we grew up much like siblings and have been close like them ever since. Thorin’s also a cousin, though much more distantly – distant enough that he and Dwalin were made as One in any case.” He watches her carefully at that, and she understands the small rush of concern. (Made as One? Could it be-)

“Don’t worry, Master Óin, I am not much shocked by that revelation. Granted, I know little of your family ties, and had no idea that you are related to the King in any way, but I do not mind that they are with each other despite their kinship. We hobbits are mostly all related to each other in one way or another, too. No one cares about cousins marrying each other, even though it makes the family trees something of a pain to keep track of.”

He barks out a laugh at that, and grins. “I can imagine. Being of Durin’s blood myself I was forced to study the ties of most nobles of Erebor as a dwarfling. There were few lessons I hated more, and I hated plenty of them!”

This time Bilbo is the one to snort a laugh, not even trying to smother it. Who would have thought that Óin is such an excellently sarcastic companion?

“In any case, what I was going to say – I’ve known both of them, Thorin and Dwalin, for my entire life, and not as the Prince and his Intended, but as kin and friends and close family. Glóin and Balin and I, we know their hearts better than they themselves do sometimes… And, of course, we care very deeply for them. So I ask you, Bilbo, to please listen to them and allow them to explain themselves, and Dwalin to apologize for the words he said when we were under the skin-changer’s protection.”

He is still watching her, with dark, pleading eyes, and what is there to do but gulp and nod slowly?

“Thank you, lassie. Now, there is but one more thing I must ask of you: Try to get some sleep as soon as you’ve spoken to them, aye? You look dreadful, and I’d feel a lot better if I knew you’d slept and eaten.”

Bilbo gulps again, and does not even try to fight the small smile sneaking onto her lips. The elderly dwarrow’s warm, genuine concern warms her cooled blood and heart in a way only her father’s frail embrace used to after her mother’s death.

“I will,” she promises, before hesitating. “Is it… alright if I look after Kíli before I go speak to them?”

This time Óin is the one to smile warmly.

“Of course. Someone has to take care of the rascals after all.” He waits until she has risen to her feet again (a little unstably, but there are convenient bars to hold on to) and almost passed out of his vision before adding, almost too quietly for her to pick up: “I’m glad you’re the one to do that, Bilbo.”

She turns around then, another blush creeping onto her cheeks and the question already on the tip of her tongue, only to find him cleaning his ear trumpet with all the concentration that might be required for threading a tiny needle in bad lighting. With a fond shake of her curly head she does move on after all, quickly darting up to where Kíli is almost wrapped up around the cold bars closest to her.

“Bilbo,” he says the moment he sees her, eyes wide and worried, “are you alright?”

Finding herself unable to outright lie to him she shrugs one shoulder, smiling crookedly at the young dwarf. “I will be, Kíli, don’t worry.”

He watches her carefully for a few more moments before smiling as well.

“I’m glad you’re here, Bilbo. We were really worried.”

Her smile softens further and she reaches for one of his hands. Princes or not, they _are_ still little more than children, no matter their fighting abilities. “I was worried about you lot, too. And Fíli, I was told,” and here she winks, “is rather worried about you as well. Do you want me to tell him anything?”

His eyes lighten up instantly.

“He’s alright, then?”

“He is,” Bilbo confirms easily, still smiling. “Even more worried than you, I believe, but otherwise fine.”

“Tell him… tell him I’m fine, too, will you?”

“Of course,” she promises, and rumples up his wild, dark hair. “I’ll gladly play raven for you if that makes you boys feel better.”

He laughs quietly at that, and finally smiles the way she has come to know him: Wide, and dazzling, and with all his heart. “You, Mistress Boggins, are the best that’s ever happened to us!”

“Oy!” Bilbo complains playfully even as she feels the tips of her ears warm distinctly. After these two conversations she is beginning to wonder whether she will ever regain her natural complexion, or whether the deep red will be making itself at home.

He is looking up at her (and how is he even doing that, being so much taller?) with those puppy yes, wide and pleading. There is a wild, unrestrained kind of hope to the cacophony of voices still rioting inside him. “You’ll talk to them, aye? Thorin and Dwalin?”

She raises a questioning eyebrow. “Is there a reason both you and Óin are so adamant about this?”

A wide grin breaks out across his lips as he nods furiously. “A very good one!” he hurries to assure her, and Bilbo snorts softly.

“Don’t worry, I already promised Óin that I’d talk to them – I’ll still look after the others down this corridor first, though, I… just want to see that they’re alright as well.”

She averts her gaze, then, but Kíli’s blunt fingers find her own and he squeezes them warmly.

“I’m sure they’ll be very relieved to see you, too.”

Smiling crookedly at him she hesitates for but a moment before pulling up against the bars, and resting her forehead against his. Gently pulling at one of the few braids his family repeatedly has to talk him into wearing she hums lowly. “Take care of yourself, will you? You and Fíli… I’ve come to care way too deeply for you boys.”

He makes a noise caught somewhere between a laugh and a sob, then, and the voice crying out the loudest is one of unadulterated joy.

“We care a lot for you too, Bilbo.”

Sharing another gentle grin with him Bilbo finally forces herself to move on, slinking down the corridor in order to be almost smothered in a cross-bar embrace by Dori, handed a small knife (and she really does not wish to know how he managed to hide that from the elves, thank you very much) by Nori, head-butted (and the almost-collision between bar and ax makes her cringe violently) by Bifur, nearly whipped into the nearest wall by Glóin’s well-meant back-slap, and receive a blinding smile from Bombur.

“I’m glad you’re alright, Bilbo!”

“I’m incredibly relieved to have found you lot well, too,” she stammers, cheeks once more dusted in a deep red.

Bombur’s smile simply widens and he, too, draws her into a clumsy embrace, pushing his thick arms through the bars and pulling her up against his soft belly.

Bilbo feels warmer and more at peace than has for a very long time (before her mother’s death, if she is to be completely honest with herself, was the last time) when she wanders back up the corridor, past all those dwarrows whose friendship she thought lost after the incident at Beorn’s home, and who are now so overjoyed to see her again. She stops in front of Fíli’s cell for a moment, in order to relay Kíli’s message and take another minute (or four) to prepare herself for… well, facing Dwalin.

Coming up to his cell, however, she finds all meticulously scraped together courage suddenly leave her.

Perhaps… perhaps she ought to talk to Thorin first. Yes, that would probably be for the better – gauge the King’s opinion first of all, for what good would it do her to make any plans before knowing whether their leader will approve of them?

Quite satisfied with her reasoning (if, unfortunately, still aware that this is her looking for excuses to trick herself with – ha!) she marches up to Thorin’s cell, trying her very best to prepare herself for… well, anything and everything, she supposes.

(And is it not a strange day indeed, that anyone would believe Thorin Oakenshield more approachable than his more level-headed, if fearsome, Consort?)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... we're actually, really, getting somewhere - now even Oin's lost his patience ;)


	8. Blue around the gills

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have fun :)

### VIII: Blue around the gills

“Bilbo.” 

This time Thorin is smiling again when he utters her name, deep waters calming down until but a gentle ripple on the surface remains upon seeing her cared for. 

“What did Óin say?” 

Bilbo raises an eyebrow. She really does not know what to make of the King’s reaction to her first appearance before his cell, or of Óin’s and Kíli’s pleas, or of Fíli’s words, or of the maelstrom and its centre and the implications hidden in the healer’s words, or – or anything, really. But, well, there is nothing for it, is there? She is tired, and in pain, and hungry, and has not seen sunlight for way too long, but she is also Bilbo Baggins of Bag End, and she is warm, and feels _loved_ for the first time in years. Loved, by a bunch of hairy, masculine, loud, boisterous dwarrows. No matter the dull throbbing in her side, she has never felt better. 

And with that warmth in her heart and giddiness in her mind she suddenly finds herself able to sit down before the cell and listen to whatever Thorin Oakenshield has to say. 

“I had to promise him I’ll sleep once I’ve… well, talked to you and Dwalin.” 

She averts her eyes upon saying this, no matter her newfound courage, though she cannot help but watch him through her long lashes none the less. 

Thorin grumbles lowly. “Damn buggers, always interfering. That’s what you get for bringing family.” 

Bilbo laughs softly. “They care for you.” 

“Oh, I know that,” he snorts. “It’d still be nice, though, if they could keep their meddling tongues to themselves just once in a while – one might think they believe me completely incapable, what with their constant interfering!” 

The hobbit snickers. 

“Well, they’ve known you for a very long time…” 

The sassy reply has slipped from her lips before she has thought it through, and she would have blushed, or maybe slapped her hand across her traitorous mouth, if not for the sudden bark of laughter ringing through the corridor. 

When she raises her gaze again Thorin is eyeing her with ever so blue eyes, and a treacherously soft smile on his lips. 

“Have you talked to my husband already?” 

Bilbo blinks. This is the first time he has openly referred to the tall warrior as his husband, at least in her presence. 

“I… no?” 

The King grumbles again. “Lazy bugger – leaving all the hard work to me again.” 

He watches her with keen eyes for a few more moments before stepping up to the bars, and sinking down to his knees in front of where she is sitting. 

“Bilbo, I… there is something I… wish to talk about. However, since this will not be easy, and might take some time – are you safe? I could not forgive myself if you were captured because of me-” 

“I’ll hear them approach easily enough,” she assures him. True, elves may be quiet walkers, but hobbits have exceptionally fine hearing, and the last days – sneaking about an elven kingdom in a desperate attempt to stay undetected – have taught her how to recognize the tell-tale signs. “And I’ve got ways to stay out of sight.” Even though, she tiredly thinks, it might do her some good, getting herself caught. Now that she knows where her dwarrows are... being locked up with them would finally allow her to sleep without fear of detection, to eat enough, and perhaps even receive medical treatment. 

Unfortunately, she is the Company’s only hope of getting out of here within the decade. 

Thorin is still watching her, nodding slowly. 

“Good,” he rumbles, before averting his gaze. “I… forgive me, Bilbo, if I don’t act according to my station – this isn’t easy for me.” 

Bilbo gulps, averts her gaze once more. “Whatever it is, you… you don’t have to tell me, if it makes you so uncomfortable.” 

She is startled when a warm, large hand wraps around her own where they are fiddling with the hem of her sorry waistcoat, and another reaches through the bars to gently lift her chin, forcing her to look at him again. 

“And that is where you are wrong, Bilbo. I do have to tell you – in fact it is quite shameful that we waited so long in the first place, either of us. But, we were rather… insecure about this matter in the beginning – even though it is still quite disgraceful we allowed that to distract us thusly – and then you were wounded, and the matter of your gender came up, and we… needed to adjust our plans and vows. And then, when we were granted the safety Beorn’s halls, Dwalin opened his great big mouth and managed to drive you away even farther than I ever did and- …” 

Bilbo blinks, staring at him. 

“Thorin,” she finally asks, small hands still held by his wonderfully warm one and his finger still lingering at her pale chin, “what in Yavanna’s name are you talking about?” 

He freezes for a moment before coughing sheepishly, a tiny red tinge to his weathered cheeks. 

“Uh… well, I guess I was trying to say sorry.” 

She blinks again. 

“And for what… exactly?” 

Thorin coughs again, and the blush deepens a little. 

“For… not having approached you on this matter, for so long?” 

“Uh-huh. And what matter, exactly, did you not approach me on?” 

The King’s blue eyes widen as he freezes once more, sitting motionless for a few moments. Even the never-still flow of waves has come to a sudden halt, shock freezing them in place. 

“Wait… you mean you don’t know what you are to us?” 

This time, Bilbo raises both of her eyebrows. (Her Took-cousins would have fled at this point – both eyebrows is never a good sign in a Baggins woman. Bilbo, however, finds herself much less annoyed or impatient than even she might have expected.) “Thorin,” she says calmly, “I’m a hobbit. Whatever you are talking about, it is not part of our culture – you’ll have to explain everything to me. I am, after all, _not_ a dwarrow. Is this about this One-business?” she adds almost as an afterthought, a desperate kind of hope slowly but surely rising in her poor heart. 

He takes a deep breath, closes his eyes. 

“I should have thought of that. You are right, you aren’t a dwarrow – how would you know what secrets we guard so greedily? It is even more shameful, then, that we treated you thusly, when you did not even have the assurance that it was Mahal’s will, and as such would be heeded in the end.” 

“Thorin,” Bilbo repeats, still terrifyingly calm. “ _What_ are you talking about?” 

“I… right,” he coughs, looking at her with trepidation in his ever-blue eyes. “What… how do hobbits love, if I may ask? So that I might explain more easily.” 

Bilbo’s poor, battered heart stutters. 

“Uh- … we, well. We usually have a few dalliances in out tween years, in order to… figure out what we’re looking for in a husband or wife, but… once we come of age most of us have found someone they want to spend the rest of their lives with. And once we finally set our hearts… there is no changing that. We marry but once, and always for love. That’s the only reason my parents’ marriage was ever permitted, that both Tooks and Bagginses knew that neither my mother nor my father could’ve ever been happy with anyone else.” This time he is the one to look at her blankly, though with a soft smile on his lips encouraging her to continue. “We never remarry, and if our spouses die most of us fade away, except maybe for a few young ones.” She gulps, trying her honest best not to think of her father’s pale face and frail embraces. “Most of us are at least engaged once we come of age, though there are a few… uh, you see, same-gender relationships are not looked upon kindly in the Shire. Most who are… thusly inclined… stay alone, rather than face the social shunning they would inevitably receive. And then there’s those like me… who just don’t find anyone, or aren’t appealing enough once they’re of age, to actually receive any proposals…” 

Her smile, she knows, is rather self-deprecating. 

Oh, she had received more than enough offers of both fun and courtship in her tween years, no matter her wildness, when everyone had still believed that she would calm down once she came of age, become a proper lady. Then her mother and father had died in quick succession, leaving her all alone quite suddenly, and she had grown so sad that no life-loving hobbit had been interested in her any more. She had pulled herself together by her 33rd birthday, though still refusing to become what the Shire expected a woman to be, passive-aggressively wearing trousers and cutting her hair, and consequently ruined any remaining chance of ever finding a husband to grow old with. 

Thorin squeezes her so much smaller fingers with an unexpected gentleness. 

“It was our luck, then, that the other hobbits were unable to see what treasure lay before them.” 

Blushing deeply Bilbo carefully raises her gaze to look at him once more, only to find a soft, fond smile awaiting her that has her heart stumble quite pathetically. 

“We dwarrows,” he begins slowly, that smile never slipping, “are made halves, or sometimes thirds or even fourths, of a whole. Mahal forges us as One with another, One to share our lives with and love until the end of this world and beyond. We know our Ones the moment we set eyes upon them… and we always know, always _feel_ , if we are missing something. There is nothing more shameful than treating your One in any way other than the best, nothing more disgraceful than giving them less than they deserve. Dwalin and I… we knew that we were made for each other long before we came of age. We also always knew, though, that we weren’t whole. That there was someone… missing. Someone who wasn’t even born when we first came together… someone special, just for us.” 

His smile widens, into something quite dazzling and heart-stopping. 

“For years and decades we dreamt of them. The thought was what kept us going when we had lost everything and were left with caring for a whole people who most desperately needed someone to look up to, something to hold on to. A young Prince and his Intended, in no way qualified to deal with what awaited us – but we knew that there would be someone else out there, someone who would love us for who, not what, we were, just like we loved each other. Someone to complete us, and bring us happiness. That was what gave us hope, and our hope, in turn, gave our people the hope and strength to keep going. Oh, we so desperately wanted to be worthy of you.” 

He is the one to smile self-deprecatingly, then, eyes and thoughts both lost in the past. 

Perhaps he does not even realize the desperate hitch in Bilbo’s breath upon the last word, nor her hammering heart (even though, to her, it certainly feels like that might be audible to the whole underground kingdom). 

They sit in silence for a few more moments, Thorin’s hand gently clinging to hers and his fingers hesitantly dancing against her chin still, deep seas churned up with more emotions than she could ever hope to decipher, before his gaze slowly returns to the present. 

“It was all the more shameful,” he continues lowly, shoulders sagging, “that we allowed our surprise to thusly rule our actions. You were… most certainly not what we expected, when we dreamt of who and what our One might be like, all those years ago. A hobbit, such a small creature, and one unable to defend himself at that – oh Bilbo, you cannot imagine what we felt like when we realized that the One we had been dreaming of… was the one we were going to take on a dangerous, cruel journey even though he barely knew how to defend himself, and – even worse – the one we were planning on contracting to steal from that thrice-cursed dragon. That evening, after you had fainted and Gandalf was pep-talking you, we had a desperate discussion, whether we should call off the Quest. It seemed too great a risk, then, to allow you to come, and it still does. We have barely found you, and almost lost you again so many times already. I-” 

He gasps for air, lost for words for the moment, and that maelstrom, that is slowly beginning to make sense to Bilbo, takes up speed once more. 

“Thorin-” 

“No, Bilbo, please – allow me to say my piece, please? I will accept your verdict then, whatever it may be, but, but, if… if you interrupt me I might not be able to finish, and you deserve to hear all of it. Please?” 

Bilbo gulps, before nodding slowly. The desperate plea in his eyes is almost unbearable. 

(As is the pain in the centre of the maelstrom.) 

“I… alright.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wuhuu, they are _talking_ :D


	9. Blue, green, grey, white, or black; smooth, ruffled, or mountainous; that ocean is not silent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still talking... hehe
> 
> This chapter’s title is a quote by H. P. Lovecraft.

### IX: Blue, green, grey, white, or black; smooth, ruffled, or mountainous; that ocean is not silent.

Thorin gifts her with a grateful smile upon her relenting, and takes a deep breath.

“Even as we treated you abysmally we were working on our vows, to say… well, to be honest we hoped you would return to your Shire, or even Rivendell, so that we might come for you once – if – we had reclaimed the Mountain, to make you our Consort and bring you to Erebor as soon as every danger was gone from it, and we could present you with the home you truly deserved.” His smile is rather crooked and a little sad, and Bilbo finds her own eyes tearing up.

“When you jumped between me and that orc – I don’t even know what I felt.” (She could tell him exactly-) “Shame, mostly, that you would still risk your life for me, after how I treated you… we began to understand, after that incident, how fierce you really are, as well as a free spirit that would not be forced into any shape.” There is a certain sense of wonder to the breeze rippling the surface, then, followed by a droplet of mischief. “Quite stubborn, too.”

“Well, you need that,” she mutters, surprising herself.

The smile returns to his lips.

“When we found out you were a lass – it was a shock. Don’t get me wrong, we didn’t care either way what you’d be, but we’d believed you to be male, so we were rather surprised. And the shame, that we hadn’t only pulled one of such gentle folk into our perils, but also a woman… neither of us reacted favourably that evening, and I wish to apologized for that. Still, we adjusted our vows, and… we were going to talk to you the moment we had a minute of relative peace and safety. Beorn’s halls seemed like the perfect place. That was, of course, until he so kindly informed us that, on top of everything else, we’d been _starving_ you. We were supposed to take care of you, cherish you and protect you against every possible evil, and instead we allowed you to suffer injury after injury.” Guilt whips up angry waves, higher and higher- “Either of us was shocked and desperate when we understood that we had failed yet again, and Dwalin’s words… were a result of that desperation. He did not mean it the way you clearly took it, Bilbo. Neither of us wants you to ever be hurt, and least of all by us.”

His eyes are wide and beseeching, hand still clinging to hers.

“Are you…” Bilbo gulps, takes a deep breath. Is he implying- … it certainly sounds like it- … She takes another breath, tries again. “Are you trying to say that I’m- …”

“Our One, to cherish forever and always? Aye.”

She blinks, her thoughts frozen to a halt.

“But- … I- … I’m a hobbit.”

He smiles gently. “We know. That doesn’t change anything, though. Mahal made us for you, and perhaps Yavanna also made you for us – is that so far-fetched, considering she is our Maker’s beloved wife?”

“I…” Bilbo gulps again. The waves now lapping against her are still heavy with guilt, whipped up with shame, dark with fear – but also softened by an almost desperate hope, and… love? “I… never thought… it was rather shameful, really, me falling for two men at once, and a married couple at that. I didn’t expect…”

This time Thorin is the one to take a deep breath. “Bilbo – I know you are not a dwarrow, and as such there is none of the certainty we usually have, that, ultimately, Mahal’s will shall be heard. Do you… would you, ah, accept our suits none the less? We cannot make our vows here, granted, locked up and separated as we are, but… but, we could… offer you proper courtship once we are out of here, and… secure it the moment we find a bed- …”

Bilbo blushes deeply.

“What… uh, what would a dwarven courtship… include?”

His eyes find hers once more, ever so blue and sincere.

“Upon our offer,” he slowly begins, “we would make our vows, and present you with our courting beads. And if you accepted, the union would be secured in body and mind – our souls, after all, are One already.”

The blush deepens even further – huh, who would have thought that possible?

“That means… lying with each other?”

The tall dwarrow raises an eyebrow, watching her carefully. “Yes. Is that… would that be a problem for hobbits?”

“Well, we… most of us fool around in our tween years, but full consummation… is, ah, required to wait for until marriage.”

“Once we enter a courtship with our One, it is only a matter of time until we marry. There is no reason to make anyone wait any longer.”

Bilbo coughs. “I, uh… well, I can certainly see the… merit in that…”

Her face must still be the colour of a tomato, and Thorin chuckles softly, gently raising her chin and ever so carefully forcing her to look at him once more. “Bilbo – we would never do anything you are not comfortable with. I told you of this so that you might contemplate whether it is something you wish for to happen, not to present you with a fait accompli. There is nothing as important to us as your wellbeing. We-”

“Yes,” she blurts out, interrupting him quite suddenly. Her heart is racing, almost desperate in its hope. “I- yes, I will accept your suits.”

Thorin’s eyes widen.

“Despite our many failings?”

The hope whipping up the waters is as desperate as the one racing her heart.

She cannot help but smile.

“Yes. I… have, quite inexplicably, found myself in love with the two of you, and if you really were to offer me a life at your sides… I’d be a fool indeed not to accept.”

A matching smile makes it across Thorin’s lips, slowly but surely, and an almost unstoppable wave of _happiness_ washes across her.

“Bilbo,” he breathes, fingers suddenly dancing across her still rather hot cheek, before his wide palm smoothes against it. “ _Our_ -” and then what could only be called a growl rumbles in his chest as he surges forward, pressing his face against the cool bars. “May I… kiss you?”

Gasping for breath Bilbo hesitates for but a second before nodding cautiously and he pulls her close ever so carefully, until her face, too, rests against the unforgiving bars, and her lips dance across his.

Being kissed by Thorin feels like… well, it feels quite unlike anything Bilbo has ever experienced. Exchanging chaste kisses as a tween with Ashton Cotton or Elwood Proudfoot or Linton Chubb – that was something else entirely. Tame, really, and almost boring, paling in comparison. There used to be fragile petals caressing the soft skin of her heated cheeks, and wide fields of lavender in bloom smelling ever so enticingly, and even the odd vine cautiously winding around their clasped hands, but this? This is so much _more_. Being kissed by Thorin is taking a leap of faith and jumping into those deep, bottomless waters. It is sinking down and down and ever down, a tidal wave of _passion_ breaking above her. It is overcoming herself and completely giving herself up to him and being surrounded by Thorin on all sides.

It is both drowning, and breathing for the first time.

Both of them are panting when they finally break apart, cheeks flushed and eyelids fluttering.

“That…” Bilbo breathes, chest still heaving, “was something else.”

“Something good, I hope?” Thorin rumbles, voice ever so deep, and smiles in a way that makes her heart stutter in its frantic pace once more.

She could not stop the answering smile sneaking onto her well-kissed lips even if she wanted to.

“The best.”

The growl rumbling deep in his chest in time with the white horses of _possessiveness_ galloping off into the sunset as huge waves crash into an unexpected shore makes her shudder.

“You should… talk to Dwalin,” he whispers, both arms still holding on to her. “I… would rather keep you in my embrace, but- … but, you need to talk to him, and you need to sleep. Preferably without getting caught.” His deep, blue eyes are bottomless pits of passion, the sea churned up by boiling springs. “Mahal, Bilbo… the moment we can rest without being chased and hunted… we’ll finally show you what you are to us. We’ll worship every inch of your skin…” He releases first her hands, and then her cheek from his iron, if ever-gentle, grip. (She can tell how much willpower that requests of him-) “Go, talk to him – while I am still strong enough to let you leave my side.”

With shaking limbs Bilbo rises to her feet, once more grateful for the convenient help the otherwise so despised bars offer.

“I- … _Thorin_ -”

“Bilbo,” he rumbles, having risen with her, and reaches for the bars in turn, white-knuckled grip almost hard enough to bend them in half. “We’ll cherish you, _always_. The moment we are free-”

Nodding shakily she smiles at him once more.

This – is this real? It certainly feels more like a wonderful, heart-shattering dream-

She still has to talk to Dwalin, however, and that makes fear fight its way up her spine once more. What if – what if he does not wish to handle this matter the way Thorin does? What if he would rather stay alone with his husband than accept a third, and one so useless at that, into their relationship? What if-

 _No_ , Bilbo firmly admonishes herself, I have to trust in Thorin, and that he would know Dwalin’s heart.

And she might be many things, but she is not a coward, thank you very much.

Squaring her shoulders (and, oh, that _hurts_ – bloody wound could at least have the grace and courtesy to heal far enough she may keep a modicum of pride!) she darts forward to press a short, sweet kiss against one of the large hands still wrapped around the unforgiving bars in a tight-knuckled grip, before marching down the corridor once more. (She has done a lot of that in the last few hours, huh?)

Behind her, a tidal wave of both adoration and disappointment rises to wash down the corridor.

(This – sensing the way she makes the great lump of a dwarrow _feel_ – makes her heart stutter and stumble once more, and she cannot help but wonder what other hobbits would sense in her now.)

Balin’s smile is a little wider than usual, and terribly knowing. Bilbo half expects him to have a teasing remark or three reserved for her – Yavanna knows that dwarrow may be wise and dignified and have diplomatic skills impressive enough to bully even Lobelia Sackville-Baggins into getting what he wants, but his tongue is also among the sharpest of the Company – upon her clearly even more dishevelled state, however, he simply smiles in a way that warms her heart. The gentle wind that makes up his emotions is a balmy summer’s night breeze, carrying both relief and happiness along with a certain whiff of self-satisfaction. She does not, however, miss the low draught of anxiety that, as she knows from experience, carries the distinct touches of worry for a beloved sibling’s wellbeing. Of course – whatever the (obviously positive) results of her conversation with Thorin, she still has not talked to Dwalin.

Bilbo gives him a warm smile in return and continues down her path, accepting Bofur’s wolf whistle with a fond eye-roll and sharing a short embrace with Ori.

And then she steps up to the next cell, finally raising her gaze to meet the tall warrior’s.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What these past two chapters taught me: It's a lot easier to find quotes/songs/sayings containing the word "blue" to fit sad/negative chaps than positive ones...


	10. True Blue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haha, so, you know what?  
> My laptop, which couldn't be booted a month ago, suddenly just worked again yesterday when my dad tried one last time before packing it up. Granted, it works even less now (or rather, that's my very-much-not-professional assessment, I know very little about computers, but to my layman eye the problem certainly looks more... severe :p), but, that means 1) I can send it in to have it serviced right now instead of working with it for the next few weeks/months in constant fear of when it will break down after all, and 2) it cooperated long enough that I got my files back *wuhuu* :D
> 
> So, have a nice chapter, a nice day, and a nice week :D ^^

### X: True Blue

Dwalin is a seething pit of shame and self-disgust, his love for Thorin burning ever-bright but surrounded by an ugly layer of petrifying, suffocating _fear_.

Unlike all others of their Companions he is standing leant against the rear wall of his cell, muscular arms crossed before his broad chest and eyebrows furled. Glowering darkly he might as well be trying to melt away the cold bars with his furious gaze alone, and Bilbo almost shrinks back upon seeing the look in his pale blue eyes.

His angry stance, however, slackens when he spots her shuffling in the corridor, quite unable to meet his stare.

“Bilbo…”

She gulps, takes a deep breath. Thorin – Thorin believes that Dwalin feels the same as him, and she at least has to allow the tall warrior to explain himself, no matter how discouraging this first sight might be.

“Master Dwalin.”

He takes a cautious step forward then, a small, fragile bubble of careful hope slowly rising towards the surface.

“Don’t… don’t call me that, Bilbo. Just Dwalin – please?”

Blinking, she sinks down to her knees once more (this day has ruthlessly exhausted much of what little strength she has left already), before nodding slowly. “I… alright. Dwalin. Uh… I believe we should… talk?”

“We should,” he nods, taking another step forward and sinking to the cold, hard floor as well. Quite unlike Thorin, however, he is sat in the centre of his cell instead of pressed against the bars, large hands locked tightly together in his lap. “I – I wish to apologize, for what I said when we talked in Beorn’s halls. I didn’t mean… I didn’t want to say, or even suggest, that we didn’t _want_ you here with us, no matter what would’ve been sensible. I was – did you already speak to Thorin?”

“I did,” Bilbo confirms, heart stumbling at the reminder, and the bubble grows a little in size.

“I don’t know how much he told you, but – I was always the one of us who claimed you should come despite your obvious lack of combat experience, despite the danger, where he insisted we should protect you by sending you home and coming for you once it was safe. After you jumped between him and Azog… Mahal, I was _torn_ , between boundless gratitude that you had saved his life, and regretting I hadn’t listened to him. I never… we never wanted for you to get hurt, Bilbo.” Unlike his husband, he does not once avert his pale gaze (even though she can tell he has to fight the urge repeatedly). “It would’ve been hard, allowing you out of our sight again had we sent you back home, but it was even harder watching you flinch with every step after Óin stitched you back together. Seeing you now, too exhausted to keep standing, and knowing that we are to blame for that-” He growls desperately, a sound so different from the one she heard rumble in Thorin’s chest not even an hour before. “I was… I overreacted. Hearing that we hadn’t only led our One, and a woman at that, into peril, but also allowed her to suffer hunger on our account, in addition to the constant worry I had for both your and his wellbeing – I reacted most unfavourably, and I wish to apologize for my words. They were delivered unkindly even though they weren’t meant that way, and more than unbecoming of me as well as of you being our One. I- …”

“It’s alright, Dwalin,” Bilbo says softly, being the one to avert her gaze after all. “I overreacted, too. It’s just… I’ve been alone for a very long time. I was… beginning to think that I might not be anymore, that you lot might become… well, family. The thought that one of you so clearly did not want me there, and that it was _you_ -”

“Bilbo,” Dwalin moans, rushing forward in time with that great, painful explosion of _regret_ , and wraps a careful, gentle hand around her shaking fingers. “Please, don’t think that we, _I_ , didn’t want you with us – Mahal, I wanted you to be safe, and hale, and at peace, but always, _always_ at my side! You’re… you’re our One, Bilbo. I know I shouldn’t be making any declarations without being able to offer you according vows and beads and bonds, but- … I waited so long to tell you, too long- …”

Bilbo offers him a small, hesitant smile, heart warming even further in the upset heat that is him.

“Thorin explained,” she says quietly. “The concept of Ones is foreign to us hobbits, even if we love much the same way… once, and forever.”

Dwalin almost whimpers at hearing that, the bubble suddenly exploding into a hot, burning spray.

“He asked,” she soldiers on, emboldened by the desperation in his pale eyes, “whether I’d accept your suits despite our current situation, and your inability to… make those vows.”

She still does not know what will be expected of her (except for the part where they will be sharing a bed, and even though the thought alone still makes her blush it is most certainly a welcome prospect no matter her having grown up amidst prudish Shire tradition), what those vows might entail and how she is supposed to answer them (perhaps, after her nap, a talk to Balin is in order?), but the wild hope and boiling fear seething in the crouched warrior kneeling before her give her what courage she might have lacked otherwise.

“I said yes.”

Another tiny whimper falls from Dwalin’s lips, and he carefully reaches his free hand through the unforgiving bars as well, to reach for hers.

“Bilbo, I – I never meant to hurt you, in any way. That, you must believe me!”

“I do,” she smiles, leaning her curly head against one of the cold bars, and looks up at him, watching his shoulders sag with relief. “I, uh… promised both Óin and Thorin that I would try to sleep as soon as possible. Apparently I look quite pathetic… but, would you, uhm…” Her heart races as she scraps together what courage she has left after this day of emotional turmoil, “kiss me first?”

Dwalin’s wild features melt into something indefinitely softer as he scoots forward, _finally_ , as close to the bars as possible.

“It would be my utmost pleasure.”

And then his lips are on hers, a little rougher than Thorin’s, but no less warm.

Being kissed by Dwalin – is something else entirely. His careful, passionate movements are at the same time rougher and gentler than his husband’s, his warm hands caressing hers even larger than the King’s, and the wild, almost desperate edge is undeniable.

Dwalin kisses like liquid fire, not swallowing her whole but warming her from all sides still. She distantly thinks her blood might be boiling, heated up by the adoring passion _burning_ wherever they are touching, white-hot magma a confused eruption of happiness and arousal. Her cheeks at least, she expects, will match the heat she has no opposition to offer upon being kissed like this. Who would have thought-

Perhaps she was never really meant and made for the Shire.

Perhaps – perhaps Yavanna indeed offered her to Mahal when he asked for One to complete two of his greatest creations.

Bilbo could not say how long she spends there, on the hard ground, being kissed and caressed and held by the giant dwarrow who has, together with his King, managed to quietly and ruthlessly burgle her heart. Dwalin offers no more conversation and she requests none, simply bathing in his warmth and presence, finally knowing that he does want her to be with him, here and forever, after all. It is only when her ears twitch that she reluctantly draws back, hastily climbing back to her feet.

Dwalin watches her with pale eyes and worry bubbling deep in the pool of magma, asking only when she is standing once more and the world has stopped spinning.

“You’re leaving?”

And Yavanna, he really would not have needed to sound quite so heartbroken-

“The elves are returning. I’ll look for a place to sleep, and something to eat, and then I’ll come back.”

His hands, too, are wrapped around the bars, and Bilbo presses a fond kiss against his fingers as well, before darting off down the corridor and pulling the ring on the moment she has passed out of sight. And not a moment too soon, for she has barely pressed her by now way too slender body into a niche that a heavily armoured elf marches past her. She hears the dwarrows’ distressed mutters in Khuzdul, and feels their worry, but – well. It really _is_ time for a nap, she unhappily accepts her exhaustion and wanders off.

The woodland palace, while underground and not as delicate as Lord Elrond’s Rivendell, still carries a certain beauty and elegance. That is, it carries a certain beauty and elegance if one is not trapped in the wraith-like world the ring pushes Bilbo into, distorting every line and sound. The emotions of her Companions are muffled, too-

Taking a deep breath she follows the elf down the corridor, and back into a section of the palace she knows quite well by now. Ducking into a barely-used storage room filled with old crates and cobwebs she crawls behind a pile of lids and huddles into the cold corner of the unlit chamber. Walls and ground are hard and cool against her back and side, but there is nothing for it but to try and make the best of her very-much-not-a-bed.

Due to her exhaustion she falls asleep soon enough, and even sleeps deeply no matter the distinctly uncomfortable position. Upon waking she sneaks from her storage room, ever careful not to move any doors when an elf might see (especially since she has no way of telling whether it is day or night, and how many guards might be on duty) and darts down the corridors leading to the wide, open kitchens. Her side gives her little trouble and that, together with the apples, rolls and jams she manages to pinch when the cooks are not looking, would have made this a good day already. Then, of course, she hears excited words of the preparations still left to do in time for the feast, and of the new wine casks having arrived, which means that the empty ones will be sent down the river.

Within moments Bilbo’s quick mind has come up with a plan.

She no longer knows whether this is going to be a good day, or a terrible one.

There is so much to do still, she has to find where the barrels will be put into the river, think of a way to get rid of the guards no doubt stationed there, get a hold of the keys to her dwarrows’ cells, perhaps even smuggle down some of their gear and weaponry – and, of course, explain to her stubborn clogs that they will be leaving Thranduil’s realm via barrel. Brilliant. And then there will be water. Even more brilliant.

Still, that is no reason to waste a nice breakfast, and she allows herself the time to sit down and enjoy what she has pilfered from the kitchens.

The following hours pass in a blur of activity including a series of close calls, with her almost getting caught at three separate times, and the moment night watch has taken over and passed down the corridor she slips the ring off her finger and darts up to Thorin’s cell, already fiddling with the unnecessarily large key ring.

“Bilbo!” Thorin gasps the moment he sees her and she smiles crookedly, pushing the first key looking like it might fit into the lock keeping his cell closed.

Bull’s eye.

“Be quiet,” she instructs him even as he pushes open the door with a little more force than strictly necessary, and pulls her into his arms, “and make sure the others will be as well. The elves are feasting, but there are guards patrolling none the less – poor sods.” She smiles up at him and presses a quick kiss to the corner of his mouth, before skilfully wriggling out of the firm embrace and darting up to free Balin. “We don’t have much time, so shoot! You’ll follow me, and keep your great big mouths shut, and try to stomp as little as possible with those huge boots you insist on wearing. Understood?”

“At your command,” Thorin rumbles lowly, eyes laughing and smile rather sappy, while Balin’s is needlessly amused, _really_. Have they never been bossed around by a woman? She finds that hard to believe. (No matter women’s expected roles in Shire public, there are few hobbit men wearing the breeches behind closed doors, and even fewer creatures more fearsome than Grandma Took on a mission.) Besides, Thorin has a sister-

Rolling her eyes but quite unable to fight the smile that has snuck to her lips Bilbo marches up to Bofur’s cell, the cheerful dwarrow’s inbound exclamation barely stopped by Thorin’s glower.

(Apparently, a little common sense really is too much to ask for. She should have known.)

Ori simply wraps her into a short embrace, a small smile the only movement of his lips, and Bilbo passes the key ring on to Balin when he reaches for it, winking.

“You’ll have something else to do in a moment, lassie,” he chuckles, and she frowns.

“Like what?”

“Like detaching Dwalin from yourself in case you wish to get moving anytime soon.”

Bilbo almost objects, but the amused honesty in the warm wind blowing across her convinces her of his sincerity. He does, after all, know his younger brother. (Also, she has felt the giant boulder of fear and worry freezing her beloved in terror ever since stepping into range-)

When they move up to the tall warrior’s cell the boulder quickly dissolves into heart-breaking relief. “Bilbo,” Dwalin murmurs, barely paying their surroundings any attention, even as he reaches for Thorin’s shoulder. “You were gone for so long-”

Bilbo gulps uncomfortably. “I… was?”

“Indeed,” Thorin agrees unhappily, his own concern resurfacing. “Almost two days. We were beginning to fear…”

“I, ah, slept,” she clears her throat, averting her gaze. “I was… tired?”

“Exhausted’s more like it,” Dwalin complains, finally pulling her into his arms. “Go take care of the other idiots?”

The latter question, it turns out, was directed at Thorin, who breathes a whisper of a kiss against her cheek and squeezes his husband’s arm before nodding and moving on to where Balin is currently trying to keep Fíli in check while freeing Óin.

“Bilbo,” Dwalin murmurs once more, hiding his face in what must be a bird’s nest of disgusting, dirty curls. “I’m glad you’re alright.”

Allowing herself a moment of peace she melts against his strong chest, and allows the ever-present heat of his once more turmoiled emotions to wrap her in beautiful warmth. The tall warrior’s arms might as well be a barrier, protecting her from reality for a moment, before she carefully nudges him.

“We should move on – our timeframe is rather narrow. Come on, let’s not leave Thorin to deal with the other idiots, as you so kindly put it, alone.”

Slipping out of his reluctantly slackened embrace she reaches for his hand to pull him along, dashing down the corridor to where Óin and Glóin are embracing, and the boys have drawn their uncle into a giant hug. Smiling softly at that Bilbo darts past the assembled dwarrows, taking the key ring from Balin’s fingers the moment Bombur has stepped out of his cell (and right into Bofur’s waiting arms) and motioning for them to follow her.

“Keep moving, we don’t have much time left. And be quiet, will you? Try sneaking, too, for all that your chance of success are rather limited…”

“Not mine,” Nori helpfully informs her from where he has just appeared at her side, a sharp knife sliding ever closer, and Bilbo gives him a rather toothy smile. “You need anyone to scout ahead?”

“No, I think we should be fine – as long as the others manage to keep their big mouths shut.” Astonishingly, that is exactly what the twelve following her and the shady dwarrow are doing – no doubt in an attempt to listen in to their murmured conversation. “I should know the guard rotations well enough by now, and the ones stationed where we’re going ought to be… ah, sleeping.”

“And where, please do tell, _are_ we going?” Bofur butts in from behind them, ignoring Nori’s delighted cackle.

“Down,” Bilbo tells him flatly.

“Really? I wouldn’t have realized without yer help, thanks very much,” the miner quips, successfully tripping up Bifur when his cousin tries to overtake him on the narrow stairs.

“Shut it, all of you,” Bilbo hisses, “now!”

And, quite wondrously, all teasing and whispering ceases as Bilbo leads them into the room containing the empty barrels, a carefully hidden stack of weapons, and two snoring elven guards.

Now, for the hard part.

Bother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just, can anyone tell me how Dwalin ended up so ridiculously, adorably _sweet_? :o
> 
> (And why the hell my "22" is there every time I preview the latest chapter, but ends up missing when I post every second time?? -.-)


	11. When the stars go Blue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title is a song by Ryan Adams.
> 
> Enjoy.

### XI: When the stars go Blue

There is a very good reason hobbits are, in general, not overly fond of large bodies of water, be they running or other. For some reason no one in known memory has ever found out they are unable to swim, except if learning it at a very young age and putting a considerable amount of effort into mastering that challenge (like a number of Brandybucks).

For Bilbo, the ensuing barrel escape has given new meaning to the words terrifying and miserable both.

Having clung to the cask Thorin was sealed into she was dunked and doused and plunged and half-drowned by the currents, rapids, and conveniently placed waterfalls, only to come up spluttering and gasping for air at every opportunity. When they finally reach calmer and shallower waters she can barely feel her fingers any longer, freezing as she is. Then Thorin succeeds at bringing his barrel into an upright position and pushing off the lid with raw force, which jars her tight grip enough that her numb fingers slip and-

Strong hands wrapping around her arms pull her up again, and halfway out of the water.

“Dori!” Thorin yells, and Bilbo wildly looks around, too cold and sluggish to make sense of the sensations around her, only to be _thrown_ -

Dori, who has by now broken free as well, catches her easily, an apologizing smile on his lips as he stumbles from his barrel and into the shallow water at the bank of the blasted river. Glóin, too, has meanwhile reached the shore, and is already stripping off his tunic.

“Get her out of those wet clothes,” he grumbles, watching as Bifur helps Ori climb out of his barrel and Fíli and Kíli almost tumble into the water. “She’ll catch her death in them!”

Dori nods and gently prompts Bilbo, whose thoughts are still somewhat stuck, to move off to the side, where he bars the others from sight with his bulk. “Come, lass, you need to get out of your clothes. Glóin’s tunic is mostly dry, that’ll be much better,” he carefully coaxes, nimble fingers already working at the buttons of her waistcoat. “Don’t worry, I’d never allow the others to see more than they’re supposed to.”

Bilbo stares at him for a moment or five, trying to grasp the meaning of his words, before nodding slowly and slipping out of her dripping waistcoat and shirt. Her chest binding, too, is soaked, and Dori carefully helps her unravel it, barking something in Khuzdul at Glóin, before cautiously tugging down her breeches and pulling the wide, beautifully dry tunic over her head.

Still a little befuddled she wriggles her arms through the armholes and crouches down to pick up her sodden clothing, only to be stopped when a large, calloused hand appears in her field of vision and grabs the garments.

Mmh, _warmth_ -

“Bilbo,” Thorin rumbles unhappily, “you should’ve told us there wasn’t a barrel left for you! We would’ve found another way.” He gently pulls her against his strong chest, and slowly the cold and terror release her mind enough for her to think straight again.

“There wasn’t any other,” she mutters once she feels able to start up a discussion, “or I would’ve thought of it. Believe me, I was no more eager to do this than you were to allow me.”

Next to her, Dwalin snorts.

“‘s not like you asked.”

“Well, you’ll have to get used to that,” the sodden hobbit snarks back, still occupied with stealing what warmth she can from Thorin’s embrace and Dwalin’s emotions.

“Indeed, I believe we will,” the King murmurs, caught somewhere between fondness and trepidation. “I fear you’ll get along with Dís frighteningly well. Doom is upon us… the proud line of Durin, brought low by two fierce women.”

“I like it,” Kíli declares, carefully leaning against Dwalin in a way that makes Bilbo smile fondly.

“Me too,” Fíli agrees, grinning broadly. “Now, are we going? There’s a barge over there, and a guy with a bow…”

That, of course, is when said man shoots at the boys.

Perfect.

Bilbo, rather distracted by the angry indignation (he shot at her boys!) and cautious compassion (poor thing, has left little but his children – who he obviously adores) waging war within her as well as the cold only slowly leaving her limbs, barely realizes half of what idiotic mischief her dwarrows get into in the following hours, until she suddenly finds herself sat before a table overflowing with an incredible number of different kinds of food.

“Tonight, you shall feast,” the Master grandly declares, “and know the generosity of Laketown!”

Gulping heavily Bilbo eyes the many delicious dishes laid out before her, stomach growling but mind on the obvious poverty Bard and his family have to endure.

“Eat,” Dwalin, who is sat next to her, gently nudges her, eyes and emotions both aglow with something she cannot place.

“But- … how can I eat this, knowing that _children_ go hungry?”

“Unfortunately,” Thorin murmurs on her other side, low enough that the Master will not hear, “it will not matter whether you eat it or not, he would never give even a crumb to those whose poverty has bought his wealth. I do not know this man, but he is as false and greedy as the bloody dragon.”

Bilbo watches him carefully, noting the same glow in his eyes, before nodding slowly. “That he is,” she agrees quietly. “False and greedy, and feeding his hunger on the misfortunes of others. He would betray us in a second. He would not care if we fell, either, but hopes that we won’t – for the further gold it might allow him to hoard.”

Balin’s dark eyes are deep, and less twinkling than she is used to.

“You’re a good judge of character, lass,” he says, a stiff breeze of sincerity blowing across her.

Bilbo adverts her gaze, and slowly reaches for a slice of chicken, dripping with fat. It tastes delicious and stale at once, the image of little, skinny Tilda never once leaving her.

The Master… is the perfect explanation of why hobbits felt the need to protect themselves and their secrets the way they did.

“About that,” she murmurs, lowly enough that but Thorin and Dwalin will hear, “I believe there is something I ought to tell you. It’s… a secret of my people, though, so I… won’t be spilling it lightly.”

“You don’t have to betray your people for our sake,” the tall warrior murmurs, sincerity bubbling deep in the red-hot pools.

She smiles sweetly at him, and reaches for the roasted potatoes. “I know. But… I want you to know. If we are to spend our lives with each other” and here the two of them freeze, both hot magma and cool water suddenly boiling high with nerves and hopeful expectation “that is something you ought to know about me.”

“Later then,” Thorin smiles, “once we’ve retaken the Mountain. If it is a secret carefully guarded by your people then we shall regard it as such. When there is neither the risk of eavesdroppers nor any pressure of time we shall listen gladly, and rejoice that you would share your secrets with us.”

“Alright,” Bilbo agrees, and allows Dwalin to scoop another slice of apple pie onto her plate. “What are our plans for tonight then?”

Both Thorin’s and Dwalin’s eyes darken, and Balin dissolves into a coughing fit.

“Tonight,” the King growls, suddenly awash with possessiveness and fear and hope and impatience and anticipation and guilt and want and insecurity all at once, making her head spin, “we will finally make our vows, and secure our union as deeply as you’d allow it.”

…Oh.

Bilbo barely manages to swallow down the last morsel of her pie without choking on it, eyes wide. Right, Thorin said that once they were free, and there was a bed available… right. Well aware of how heat has risen to her cheeks she carefully raises her gaze once more from where she allowed it to drop in the moment of surprise, darting either dwarrow sat next to her a careful glance. A clear quake of worry wracks through both deep pools as they exchange a glance of their own, and the dark shadow of resignation approaches way too fast.

She finds herself smiling quite suddenly, slowly resting her head against Dwalin’s strong shoulder.

“I hope you’re aware that I have absolutely no idea what is expected of me when it comes to the vows and beads you mentioned.” She tilts her curly head back until she is able to look into the tall warrior’s eyes, warmed by the sudden wave of hot relief washing across her from both sides. “Also, is there a chance I might take a bath before we do this? I’d rather feel… well, not quite so disgusting and at odds with my own body.”

“I’m sure that can be arranged,” Thorin smiles.

“So long as you don’t leave us waiting too long,” Dwalin adds, winding a strong, warm arm around her back to rest at her hip, and she contently snuggles up against him.

This – this, she can imagine spending the rest of her life like, even if it should be underneath a mountain and so very far away from her parents’ ghost-filled smial.

Thorin darts them an affectionate glance before rising and leaving the room, only to return a few minutes later, the wide grin on his lips making him look distinctly like a large, predatory cat that got the cream.

“Your bath is being prepared as we speak. Allow us to accompany you there?”

A fresh blush dusting her cheeks Bilbo climbs off the high bench with Dwalin’s easily offered assistance, smiling at both of the dwarrows standing so much taller than her.

“Alright. But you will bathe as well, or I’m not coming anywhere near you.”

Balin, sitting closest to where they are standing, snorts into his wine goblet, pale pearls of amusement rolling through the air.

Dwalin grumbles. “That’s blackmail!”

Shrugging happily Bilbo pats his trembling brother’s back. “I don’t care what it is, as long as it makes the two of you smell clean and… well, less like you’ve spent the past weeks crawling through a mountain, running from orcs, scrambling through a cursed forest, and being locked up in cells with questionable sanitary systems.”

At that Balin loses his inner fight and bursts into deep, barking laughter, alerting everyone’s attention.

Immediately, Bofur’s eyebrows climb up his forehead and a leer sneaks onto his lips. “And where are the three of you off to?”

Bilbo really could have done without the teasing, being rather tired and insecure after the exploits of the day. Still, she knows that the miner means no harm, so she forces a dry grin onto her own lips and deadpans: “Bathing.” With that she whips around and marches from the room, the two great lumps of dwarrow trotting after her like giant puppies. Amidst the whistling and catcalling and Óin’s warnings to better not aggravate her wound if they knew what was good for them she slams the door close, leaning against the moment it has shut out the noise.

“Bilbo?” Thorin carefully asks, a hand reaching for hers. “Are you alright?”

Taking a deep breath she nods, opening her eyes.

“Alright enough,” she concedes upon seeing the worry in their eyes. “The day was simply… trying.”

“That it was,” Dwalin agrees, before motioning for his husband to lead the way.

Thorin steps forward to press a gentle, scraping kiss against the corner of her mouth, before slipping her hand from his palm to the crook of his elbow and leading her up a set of surprisingly sturdy stairs. Dwalin is walking behind them, strangely happy about that, and Bilbo would have asked – had the King not opened a door to the left which reveals a bathtub filled with steaming hot water. At that, most coherent thoughts flee her upon the sudden prospect of being _clean_ again.

Handing her her by now almost dry clothes Thorin smiles. “We’ll be across the hallway, waiting for you,” he promises, but she barely hears him anymore, and hardly realizes the moment the door closes.

A second later she has shrugged off Glóin’s wide tunic and is carefully stepping into the hot water, sighting with bliss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mehehe.


	12. Into the wide Blue yonder

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... I absolutely suck at writing porn, which is - surprise, surprise - the precise reason I usually _don't write_ porn. Just, here... it happened. It's a rather ridiculous mixture of me-trying-not-to-be-very-explicit(-especially-in-my-choice-of-words) and me-being-terribly-explicit, so... well, so, you've been warned, which was the actual reason for my rambling here.
> 
> Have fun.

### XII: Into the wide Blue yonder

Her hair still dripping and clad in her own ruined – but now clean – clothes once more, Glóin’s freshly washed and damp tunic in hand, Bilbo stands in front of the door opposite the one she has only just stepped through, staring at it. Knocking, it turns out, requires more courage than she ever expected. Oh, she does want this to happen, Yavanna she _does_ – both the courtship and what will follow after her acceptance. And still… she is afraid, and not even sure of what. That they might change their mind, perhaps, and not wish to court her after all, especially if they turn out to be disappointed by what she has to offer. She could not stand disappointing them, not after having seen them look at her with such open adoration.

(She might already be addicted to that.)

Alright. I am _not_ a coward, she reminds herself, I can do this!

Taking a deep breath she raises her hand to knock quickly, before she might change her mind once more.

It takes barely a moment before Dwalin yanks the door open, wearing naught but breeches and his beard still damp. Bilbo freezes upon the sight, all taut skin and bulging muscle and dark markings. Oh, she is _lost_ -

“Bilbo?” he asks carefully, an unexpected insecurity bubbling lowly, and she snaps her gaze up to meet his pale blue eyes, cheeks warming once more.

“I- … ah… can I come in?”

“Always,” he answers cautiously, stepping aside, and Bilbo plods into the room, watching him close and lock the door behind her. She ought to be scared by that, she distantly thinks, afraid that they might take advantage of her lesser strength, but all she can fear at the moment is that they might think her unworthy of them after all.

“Where’s Thorin?” she asks, setting Glóin’s dark red tunic over the back of a chair, and her gaze inevitably drops back to his strong, bare chest.

“Still fiddling with his hair,” Dwalin slowly replies, pale eyes following her every movement. “He’ll be here in a moment.”

Nodding silently Bilbo allows her eyes to dance across the many dark markings once more before stepping up against him, drawn in by the warmth both his body and emotions offer so freely. Wrapping her small hands around the wisps of his greying beard she pulls him down for what quickly turns into a scorching kiss, enjoying the way his strong arms wrap around her wide hips.

That, by Shire traditions, sharing a bed is something not openly talked about, and not even honestly considered before marriage (a bastard is never looked upon kindly), does not mean she has not thought about it before, and even allowed her imagination to play out what those two dwarrows might do to her before Thorin ever mentioned it.

Pressing up against him as closely as she can Bilbo rises onto her tiptoes, still clinging to his beard-

“Couldn’t have waited for me, could you?” Thorin rumbles, waves of half annoyance, half amusement sloshing across her.

“You were taking too long,” Dwalin, who broke their kiss but not their embrace upon the arrival of his husband, rumbles, darkened eyes drilling into her own.

“We ought to make our vows first,” Thorin reminds him, the amusement most obviously winning out now, and marches over to rummage around in… something, Bilbo is still rather distracted. “We want to do this properly after all.”

When Dwalin slowly begins to – reluctantly – unwind his arms from around her a small whimper escapes her lips, and white-hot arousal spikes in the simmering pool of molten heat.

“You’re right,” the tall warrior says, deep voice rather throaty, and Thorin darts him a dark, heated glance.

“I do love hearing that voice,” he casually remarks as he rises, one fist clenched. “Bilbo… would you sit, and hear us out?”

Gulping deeply in an attempt to recompose herself Bilbo nods, and allows Dwalin to lead her over to the wide bed. (Well, wide for a hobbit in any case.) Sinking onto the surprisingly soft mattress Bilbo wriggles her hands underneath her thighs and looks at them expectantly.

Thorin, too, has left his torso bare (and there are a few markings also, but by far less than on Dwalin’s scar-littered skin), and the water dripping from his still wet hair is trailing down his defined chest, down into the waistband of his breeches-

The two of them share a glance and Thorin offers some of whatever he has locked in his fist to Dwalin, before stepping forward.

“Bilbo, I… we know that this is not how your people would do this, and such there are no… wrong or right reactions we expect. We’ll simply make our vows, and you don’t have to answer with one of your own, just tell us whether you accept them or not, alright? And the beads… we prepared some for you, once we realized that you wouldn’t know how to forge and carve them. If you wish to make your own at some point, then we’ll replace them with yours.”

“Alright,” she nods, still nervous but a little less worried now. “I still have no idea what you’re talking about, but as long as you don’t expect me to answer according to your customs…”

“We’ll teach those to you soon enough,” Dwalin promises, before sinking to the ground in time with his husband.

Kneeling before her either reaches for one of her hands, carefully cradling them in their own so much larger ones.

“Bilbo Bluebell Baggins of Bag End,” Thorin begins slowly, and, really, she would have kicked him if he had not sounded so sincere, if the wide, nervous waters had been any calmer.

“Gentle hobbit of the far Shire,” Dwalin continues, deep voice rumbling and grave.

“You are our One, chosen by our Maker himself to complete us, for us to love and cherish until we return to his halls and beyond.”

“You are our One, to share with us in love and pain, in peace and war, in safety and peril.”

“We vow to always stand by your side, to ever care for you and to never leave you unless our Maker beckons us to return to him.”

“We vow to always accept your wisdom, to ever respect you as both a hobbit and a woman, and to never forget what you left behind for us.”

“We swear to always be the best for you, and to never look for the worst in you.” Thorin’s eyes have never left hers.

“We swear to always offer you our hearts, and to never take yours for granted.” Neither have Dwalin’s.

“We shall always cherish you, body mind and soul,” the King promises, waves surging up high in both fear and excitement.

“And we shall never allow any hurt to reach you as long as we live to prevent it,” the Consort finishes, aglow with hope and trepidation.

“Do you accept us, our vows and our suits, our bodies and our souls, to be yours until the world is renewed?” Thorin asks carefully, strong fingers trembling just the tiniest bit.

Bilbo gulps and gently squeezes their hands before nodding slowly, desperately attempting to gain control over her wildly racing heart. “I accept you, and everything you might offer me,” she says hoarsely, swept up in their frantic emotions with her own crashing into them-

Dwalin surges forward, pressing his forehead against hers.

“Allow us to braid your hair, so that all might see you’re _ours_ -”

Nodding dazedly Bilbo barely manages to steal a short kiss before both dwarrows are sat to either side of her, carefully weaving complicated patterns into her still damp hair. She already knows what they will ask before Thorin has even thought of doing so.

“Let it grow for us… please?”

“I… guess it’s time I did that,” she accepts, smiling slightly, and closes her eyes as she enjoys their clever fingers tangling into her short curls. If any hobbit had requested that of her she would have thrown them out, but these two… she knows that they are not asking in order to force her into following social rules she has always abhorred, in order to take away what little freedom she has fought for so hard, but because of what seeing their braids in her hair makes them _feel_ like. “So, am I… uh… expected to braid your hair as well?”

“You would be,” Dwalin grins, tugging lightly at her finished braid. The bead dangling at its end is beautiful – so is its partner.

“Then I hope you are aware that I never learned how to do it,” she contently warns them, happiness bubbling within her in time with theirs.

“We’ll teach you,” Thorin rumbles, yet another promise to be exchanged in this formerly so meaningless room. “Come, I’ll show you.” He turns her around until both of them are facing Dwalin, who is watching them with pale, excited eyes. The King’s large, warm hands guide her as they gather up a streak of brown and grey hair next to the warrior’s shredded ear, weaving a simple braid into it. “Don’t worry, you’ll know how to do more complex patterns soon enough.”

Dwalin hums contently, reaching up for a moment to run a finger down the smooth pattern, before motioning for both of them to turn around.

He, too, assists her with braiding Thorin’s long, dark curls, the King all but purring.

Thorin turns to look at the both of them once they are finished, a new bead dangling at the height of his chin, and within the blink of an eye the atmosphere _shifts_. Bilbo feels it all too closely, the moment gently lapping happiness and content make way for a great surge of hot, hopeful arousal.

“Bilbo,” he growls, pulling her into a scorching kiss of his own, and all she can do is cling to his shoulders and kiss him back with everything she has. This time he is the one to whimper when she pulls back to look at him, taking a deep breath before softening his grip of her hips. “Bilbo… would you… allow us to _claim_ you-”

And that, Bilbo cannot help but think dazedly, heart already speeding up once more, is just why she could never take the hobbits who offered her courtship seriously.

“Don’t- … don’t go too fast,” she gasps, “I’m not…”

“You don’t have to do this, Bilbo,” Dwalin murmurs against her back, disappointment pooling in the hot depths, “we’d never make you!”

“I know, and I – I _do_ want it. Just, go slowly?”

“Whatever you ask of us,” Thorin rumbles, reluctantly releasing her from his arms only to climb up to the middle of the bed, and beckon her to follow.

After but a short moment of hesitation she scrambles up and into his lap, legs on either side of his, and he gasps for air when their hips touch. “Mahal, Bilbo – you tempting _minx_ -” He surges down to kiss her, capturing her lips and tongue and drowning her in his incredible presence once more. Then Dwalin presses against her from behind, a burning heat of his own, and takes to breathing gentle kisses against her nape, large hands sneaking between her and Thorin to begin opening the buttons of her waistcoat.

The heat in the deep, churned up waters rises in time with the one in the King’s body, unmistakable from where she is pressed against him.

Whimpering lowly Bilbo breaks away from the kiss in order to watch her small fingers dance across the mounds and valleys of Thorin’s broad chest, while Dwalin skilfully releases her of her waistcoat and attacks her shirt with renewed vigour.

Shrugging it off once all buttons are defeated Bilbo watches the hunger in Thorin’s deep blue eyes upon realising that she has not bothered with binding her chest, almost desperately relieved when he growls and surges forward to capture her lips in a burning kiss once more, arousal and adoration both sloshing higher still. Dwalin presses up against her now bare back, skin against skin, and returns to breathing soft, whispery kisses against her shoulders, his hands slowly and carefully sneaking between his husband and hobbit once more, to gently wrap around her breasts.

Dwarrows, Bilbo knows, pay a great amount of attention to detail.

Still, she could not have been prepared for what being at the centre of that attention would feel like.

Together, the two of them work at undoing her completely, laying her down and… _worshipping_ her, like Thorin had promised back in the Elvenking’s prison. Counting every freckle on her skin, they slowly but surely work her into a frenzy until she shifts off her breeches and undergarments without either of them prompting her to, desperate to feel their touch on her heated skin with no more cloth separating them. Dwalin does not hesitate to dive in, kissing first her thighs and drawing ever closer until she almost begs him to not leave her waiting any longer, while Thorin takes to teasing his husband’s glorious erection.

His tongue, it turns out, is as skilled as his fingers at her nipples are, and before long she finds herself quivering and trembling.

Dwalin’s smile is devious when he rises, beard smudged, and Bilbo might have shrunk back if he had not pulled Thorin into a ridiculously hot kiss, making the King _moan_ upon the taste.

Huh, who would have thought-

Her people’s abilities, it turns out, will allow her no short respite, for the heat ablaze in both her dwarrows is more than enough to push her own arousal back to the surface.

Finding herself unwilling to wait any longer, no matter how enticing the sight of the two of them pressing up and moving against each other might be, she scrambles up and into Thorin’s lap, Dwalin moving eagerly to allow her doing so. For a moment she balks before drawing the King into a kiss none the less, already moving against his hard erection. It is certainly larger than a hobbit’s, but-

Carefully lowering herself she feels Dwalin’s careful, hungry fingers at the place where they are joined, witnessing every movement until she has fully sunken down onto Thorin, wrapping her legs around his hip. The tall warrior’s fingers move to caress her, then, quickly working her into yet another frenzy, and before long she finds herself helplessly clinging to Thorin’s broad shoulders, his strong arms easily lifting her at an ever-increasing pace.

When she begins to quiver and tremble once more, overwhelmed, she feels him tense but moments later.

He easily lifts her off himself, then, and ever so carefully onto Dwalin, who is a little wider than him still.

She might not have agreed, feeling rather tired and worn out already, if not for the desperate surge of molten heat crashing into her and quickly working her into yet another frenzy-

Falling back, until her shoulders are resting against the mattress, she allows Dwalin to move her hips and Thorin to take over the caressing (and who knew how many delicious places there are, just waiting to be touched-) until the world around them falls away and all that is left is the heated, hissing clash of roiling water and seething magma, surrounding her on all sides.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God, I _suck_ at writing vows - that took me _hours_ , and I'm still not actually happy with them :/
> 
> Also, yes, Dwalin does have some hair left. It's just not, you know, _on top of_ his head, like one might expect :p


	13. Between the devil and the deep Blue sea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have fun :)

### XIII: Between the devil and the deep Blue sea

Waking to gentle warmth against her side and the heat of an unmistakable hardness, to soft kisses being pressed against her cheeks, forehead and finally lips, is certainly something she could get used to.

“Bilbo, Imrilamê, time to get up,” Dwalin’s voice rumbles, as deep as the wide pool of molten heat. “We’re leaving once the sun rises.”

Grumbling lowly she turns until she is laying flush against him, skin against skin.

“That’s too bloody early.”

“It’s Durin’s day, agyâdê,” he breathes into her once more wonderfully clean curls, content to hide his face in them, and what is it with the sudden flood of endearments she cannot even understand?

“We should wait another year, then,” she quips, already sitting up and yawning widely. “In this bed.”

Dwalin, openly eyeing her uncovered curves with darkened eyes, sighs. “Don’t tempt me.”

Darting him a short, toothy grin Bilbo wriggles off the bed (quite pleased by what effect that motion has on the warm emotions ever bubbling against her) and takes to gathering up her inconveniently scattered clothing, binding her chest once more before tugging on shirt and waistcoat. Opening the door to the tiny balcony this chamber boasts and allowing the icy air to finally wake her she eyes the narrow streak of orange against the horizon and sighs as well.

“Then we should hurry up, if we wish to get some matter of breakfast.”

Groaning lowly Dwalin follows her example, covering all those lovely muscles and markings with his freshly cleaned tunic and breeches before moulding what armour she managed to sneak down into the Elvenking’s wine cellars against his strong torso.

The knuckle dusters come last and Bilbo hungrily watches the blunt, ever so nimble (and that she now knows for a fact) fingers skilfully close the clasps holding the leather straps around his muscular forearms together, raising her gaze to meet his the moment he is done. He strides forward, then, much like a predator of barely concealed strength, and pulls her into a blistering kiss. She melts against him once more, enjoying the feeling of unrestricted safety only her two dwarrows are capable of conjuring.

“Breakfast,” she pants, breaking off the kiss when it grows even more consuming, “or we won’t be leaving at sunrise!”

Reluctance laced into the contentment bubbling in the white-hot depths he releases her from his strong embrace, a tiny but treacherously gentle smile sneaking onto his lips when she reaches for his so much larger hand and, after having snatched up Glóin’s tunic, pulls him from the room.

He follows her lead quite happily, quickly entwining their fingers, and together they step into the room they feasted in the night before.

Half the Company is already present, Thorin rising from his chair the moment he sees them, and a clamour of quite epic proportions arises once the other dwarrows spot their matching courting beads. Dwalin, however, ignores them and greets his husband with an affectionate (and quite rough) clap against his backside (making Bilbo blush once more) before stepping aside in order to face the inquisition, and the King snorts fondly.

“Perv,” he mutters, grinning, before pulling Bilbo into a scorching kiss of his own.

He is, however, quite soon forced to relinquish her when Balin wriggles up between them without care, regard or shame, and draws her into a warm, soft embrace.

“Welcome to the family, Bilbo,” he murmurs against her ear, gentle wind carrying an unwavering satisfaction and genuine happiness. “Thank Mahal that those two got off their arses after all!”

Snickering, Bilbo returns the embrace, distantly imagining how she would have reacted to such a declaration a few months ago, when she had still been a proper hobbit – with a healthy amount of indignation at least, no doubt.

Balin, too, is quickly challenged for his right to be hogging her by Óin, who shamelessly claims wanting to take a look at her side only to draw her into an embrace of his own.

“I’m glad you accepted their suits, despite the way those idiots treated you,” he grouses, handing her over to his brother. “We need some brains in this family, and Mahal knows neither Thorin nor Dwalin brought much of their own!”

“Oy!” the King complains from across the room, only to be ignored by the healer who has lifted her shirt and waistcoat after all to take a look at the healing gash.

“Neither did you, brother, so no need to be laughing quite so loudly,” he continues, skilfully kicking his brother against the shin when he is unable to retaliate with Bilbo in his arms. “I said much the same to Ásdís when you brought her home, good thing Gimli’s taking after her in that regard.” Cackling madly he rescues her from Glóin’s arms, then, by dumping her into Dori’s, only to delve straight into the scuffle awaiting him in his brother’s eyes.

Bilbo watches them for a few moments, still a little bewildered by the amount of tussling male dwarrows apparently need in order to be happy, before shaking her head in fond exasperation.

“Children, the lot of them!”

“You’re telling me,” Dori agrees immediately, happily leading her over to the table still overflowing with food and rescuing the now crumpled tunic from her grip. “Now eat something, this might be our last proper meal for quite some time.”

Nodding mournfully Bilbo reaches for a slice of what appears to be freshly baked bread (the Master really does enjoy all possible kinds of luxury at the price of his people’s hunger, doesn’t he?) and sighs deeply. “That’s the motto of this quest,” she complains.

Dori laughs lowly, ignoring the brawl Thorin, Dwalin and Balin have joined by now. “It’s the motto of almost every journey, lass.”

Nodding once more – this time knowingly – she swallows down the last morsel. “See, and that’s why hobbits don’t go adventuring. All it ever brings about is being late for dinner. And, well, being courted by a King and his Consort, apparently.”

“Aye, that’s what you get for stepping out your front door,” Nori happily agrees, sinking into the chair on her other side. “Now, should we interrupt this little scuffle, or do you want to see who wins?”

“If we allow them to keep going we’ll be late,” Ori states next to him, yawning and reaching for an apple.

“Which would give us more time to enjoy this _last proper meal for quite some time_ ,” Bilbo points out, watching both Thorin and Dwalin from the corner of an eye. “Besides, if we wait for Fíli and Kíli to join in they’ll actually be awake afterwards, and we won’t have to drag them up to the mountain.”

“Both valid points,” Bombur munches. “We should still stop them, though, or they’ll be all grumpy and complainy.”

“Oh, I know,” she sighs, quickly gulping down one last morsel before climbing off the ridiculously high chair. She marches up to the pile of thrashing dwarrows, then, before whistling through her teeth the way her mother taught her. Loudly. “The sun’s rising.”

A few minutes later they are on their way, the occasional conveniently placed kick or jab and a great number of rather lewd jokes and songs their cheerful companions.

They reach the Lonely Mountain in the early afternoon… and that, of course, is where a ruthless stop is put to the good mood.

Thorin sends the others out to look for the secret entrance, before pulling both Bilbo and Dwalin off to the side, his deeply blue eyes awfully serious.

“Bilbo,” he says lowly, “I wish to release you from your contract.”

“What?” she squeaks, fearing for a terrible moment that he might be talking of their courtship, before he produces the scroll he or Balin apparently managed to hold onto despite their many trials faced.

“Bilbo, there’s a very real chance that Smaug is still alive, simply waiting, and in that case I don’t want you anywhere _near_ that worm.”

Remembering Nori’s prediction that they would be talking about that, the night after the Company had found out about her real gender, she sighs and squares her shoulders.

“Thorin, I’ve come all this way in order to sneak into his lair, and I’ll do just that. Gandalf’s right, I’m the best choice for it – I’m a hobbit, which makes me excellent at sneaking about, and, like Balin said, I’m a good judge of character.” And interesting name for her people’s so very special talents if there ever was one. “If anyone here might have a chance of not angering him any more than necessary, it’s me. Besides, he knows the smell of dwarrow only too well – no, I’ll be going.”

Watching her with wide, worried eyes and a thin line for his lips Thorin appears to accept her decision.

Dwalin, of course, does not.

“Bilbo, you haven’t seen what he’s capable of! He’s not big, he’s gigantic, and he killed a great number of seasoned warriors within every second he moved about without care nor effort! You ought to fear him, not take this lightly!”

Bilbo feels her shoulders slump as she raises her gaze to meet his, lips barely trembling.

“I fear him, believe me, I do. The thought of going down there, alone, with no protection but my own wit- … it’s _terrifying_. But, while I may be tiny, and no good at fighting,” (which is, strictly speaking, not entirely true) “that’s something I’m used to. That I can use to my advantage! And I couldn’t… I couldn’t allow any of you to go in my place, when I know I’m the best choice. If anything happened to the one going instead of me, I’d never forgive myself.”

Still looking into Dwalin’s pale blue eyes she feels sorrow and understanding bubble up in unison.

“And do you believe we’d ever forgive ourselves if we lost you down there, because we didn’t go in your stead?”

“The difference,” Bilbo says quietly, “is that I stand a reasonable chance of being able to trick him, while you don’t. He’ll know who you are the moment he smells you, _either_ of you, and that’s not a risk I’m willing to take.”

“We aren’t willing to risk your life, either,” Thorin murmurs against her curls, an unmistakable undercurrent of desperation to both his words and the waves lapping against her.

“Unfortunately for you, I have signed a contract.”

This, perhaps, was not the most sensible nor the most sympathetic way to remind them of their powerless position when it comes to making this decision for her. Still, it gets her up to the secret door, and into the mountain, and – after a last, pained embrace from Balin – into the lair of the dragon.

Alone.

But, well, that was part of the deal, wasn’t it?

Smaug, it turns out, is indeed alive and very soon very much awake.

And Bilbo does what she does best: Square her shoulders; and imagine this to be a particularly unpleasant family gathering with Great-Aunt Laura inquiring yet again why she has not found a husband still, and when she will finally become a proper woman; and tries her very best not to be swallowed by the raging _inferno_ that is a fire-drake’s dark, twisted and dangerously detailed emotions.

In the end, however, all that matters little when he understands her carefully crafted implications and rushes off to destroy Laketown in spite of her best attempts and intentions.

She might have been alright still, if this had been the end of it – shaken, yes, haunted by burning guilt, oh _yes_ ; battered, but not broken. As it is, however, ousting the dragon was (of course) not enough. If Thorin and Dwalin had rushed in to make sure she is alright, if they had held her and battled the guilt at her side…

Yes, if.

If she had never stepped down into the treasury, perhaps now she would not be staring at the glittering jewel in her small hands, hidden away from family and the two beings she loves above all, and wondering whether they will ever forgive the betrayal she is about to commit.

(And whether she will ever be able to forgive herself.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's always the time and place for some Durin family feels <3


	14. Hoisting the Blue Peter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did any of you run in the Wings For Life World run yesterday? :D  
> I did, and the atmosphere was as unbelievably beautiful as every year <3

### XIV: Hoisting the Blue Peter

The deep, churning waters that used to be warmed by hope and fondness and – dare she say – love are darkened now, soured by gold and greed and _anger_.

Bilbo might have said there is little left of the dwarrow she fell in love with, whose courtship she accepted so readily, but that would have been a lie. The truth is, Thorin is still the dwarrow he used to be, the same dwarrow who looked upon her with such open adoration and could barely keep his clever fingers from wandering a scant few nights before. The waters, wide and open and endless, are the same that gently lapped against her in happiness, that washed hope across her and flooded her with arousal.

And yet he is lost to her all the same.

“It’s no trick. The stone is real.”

The outcome of this confrontation, she knows, was inevitable from the moment she climbed down the battlements in the middle of the night, with her Intended’s most prized heirloom wrapped in a piece of meaningless cloth and doomed to be given to his enemies. A desperate attempt, to be sure, but one to save her family’s lives when she saw no other resort. She knew that there would be no possible future for them when she insisted on returning to the Mountain, no matter Thranduil’s well-meant warnings, but hiding herself away was simply never an option – not then, and not now.

“I gave it to them.”

Thorin’s eyes are wide and angry, his fists shaking and painful, horrified disbelief smashes into her upon this realization: That the One he has vowed to love and cherish forevermore has betrayed him.

_But, well, she never returned that vow, did she?_

She knows her dwarrows more than well enough by now to suspect that he must be thinking along those lines, with Dwalin faring little better, and, oh, it _hurts_.

Their pain, while muffled and blanketed by their lust for gold, is agony to her heart, guilt so deep and ruthless she might as well have turned Sting against herself.

“You? You would steal from me?”

And yet, she knows, there _was no other way_.

“Steal from you? No,” and here she almost laughs, bordering on hysteric, “I might be a burglar, but I’d like to think I’m an honest one.”

I was, and ever will be, loyal to you and the One you hold dearest.

“Do not speak to me of loyalty!” he hisses (-did she say that out loud??), like a wounded animal, and Bilbo barely flinches. (She wishes she had not flinched at all, that both his pain and her own had not cut quite so deeply-) and draws his sword. She almost scrambles backwards then, in the face of this sudden and open threat, but when Orcrist flashes and comes towards her, ever quick and unstoppable, it spares her pale throat – swiftly and cruelly cutting off her courtship braid instead, grazing her cheek and taking the tip off her ear.

And that… is a whole new kind of agony, and it is the emptiness where a bead ought to be that hurts most, more than she ever thought possible, given that it is just hair that was cut. Somehow, the actual wounds are less painful than the terrible and immutable reality of Thorin having taken her braid-

“Throw her from the ramparts!”

…oh.

And, suddenly, all pain falls away, powerless in light of this new terror.

Thorin asking for her life to take vengeance for her betrayal – that, to be honest, is an outcome she did not expect.

Of course, it has crossed her mind – that they might shave and brand her like a traitor, for a traitor she is now, and then take her head as final punishment. And still, she hoped – _prayed_ – that her dwarrows might not be so far gone, to call for the life of one they used to call family. A high price, for a betrayal such as hers… and still, it would mean giving her own life in order to make saving theirs possible, and there is a certain (quite ironic) kind of beauty to it.

She would have died for them too, and willingly, in any different circumstances.

But as it is, she is – unfortunately – well aware of what the sickness that plagued her those last few mornings most probably means. It is a surprise, certainly, for they are dwarrows and she is a hobbit… and yet she is Yavanna’s child all the same, and as such one meant to breathe life into all things growing. (Or, in other words: No one should underestimate the fertility of hobbits.) In any other circumstances her King and Consort might have been overjoyed by those news too, for while she may not know what dwarows think of half-bred children she has long since learned that they deeply love any and all young ones.

Now, though? She does not dare share these news, for fear of how they might react, and as such she has no defence to offer when Thorin requests her life as punishment.

None of the others, however, obey the King’s command, confusion and fear and pain a whirling chaos claiming her attention. Balin shrinks back, an angry storm of disbelief at the forefront of his mind, as Fíli and Kíli stumble up and between their Uncle and Bilbo, their voices sluggish and gold-ridden still, but crying out in a desperate attempt to protect her. Ori, usually perfectly neat script scrawled by terror, is the one to hold back his brother when Dori, snarling and _angry_ , attempts to throw himself at their King. Nori is already reaching for a knife, and Bifur for his boar spear-

All that matters little when Dwalin is the one to step forward, a knife flashing to take her second braid, before his powerful grip closes around her neck and tears her away from the boys’ helpless protection, and the sheer _hatred_ in his eyes, the readiness to obey Thorin’s command- … hurts more than she would ever care to admit.

Amidst the fear and hesitance and concern and confusion and pain of her Companions he burns like a pool of molten fury and hatred, the heat that used to warm her now scorching and hurtful-

“If you don’t like my burglar then please don’t damage her.”

For a long, terrible moment, held aloft by Dwalin’s strong fingers slowly but surely strangling her (sharp edges of the knuckle dusters cutting into the soft skin of her neck-) and threatened by Thorin’s sword, naught but sharp, unforgiving rocks far down below her, Bilbo expects them to refuse the wizard. Either’s emotions, fuelled and stoked by the dragon’s ruthless curse, are a single, pointed desire to _kill_ , to obliterate what betrayed them.

And she almost regrets having come back, for it will have made her a murderer, but even knowing that the loss of her unborn child’s life will always be her blame to bear… she would make the same choices all over.

“Return her to me!”

They hesitate, for a few more terrible moments, before Thorin lowers his sword and Dwalin pulls her back, throwing her against the hard ground of the battlements.

She stumbles and falls, barely rolling to protect her stomach, the light but hard mithril painful against her shoulder, and scrambles back to her feet.

Bofur quickly helps her back to where the rope is still waiting from her previous descent, a terrified hitch to his no longer cheerful song, and the world watches her climb down the freshly built wall with numb fingers and a number mind, almost slipping one time (or five).

Gandalf draws her into a protective embrace the moment she has reached him, easily shielding her from the burning, hateful eyes with his greater size. His anger and concern are powerful, threatening thunderclouds, the storm already raging in the distance and drawing ever closer. And yet, the sheer force of his ancient emotions is not enough to drown out the _hatred_ -

Unable to stand it for but a moment longer Bilbo once more draws her sixth sense as close to her own skin as possible, and the sudden cold and _silence_ where family ought to be (and, oh, she has gotten used to it, has gotten used to not being alone any longer-) is agonizing in a way she has no words to describe.

Barely able to understand a word of what the three Kings and the wizard are exchanging she sways against the only friend left to her, wondering where she might go now. The Shire, she knows, is no longer an option – not with the child growing within her. Perhaps she could stay in Rivendell, for a time, have her son or daughter and…

No.

No, having the half-bred bastard child of the royal throne of Durin, banished from the fathers’ eyes forevermore, and never knowing whether they might grow up knowing nothing of their heritage, or whether a troop of warriors might arrive any moment to take them away-

No, this is not a life she can force upon her child, and not one she will be able to bear herself. And yet, it is the only choice left for her, the only way she might grant her child a life worth living.

She barely raises her gaze when the tightly controlled troops of elves shift around her, and Gandalf quickly moves to stand with the men.

She is _alone_.

The terrible cold once more rises through her bones and veins to capture her heart, painful and petrifying, and almost automatically she allows her trembling fingers to slip into the pocket of her poor, ruined waistcoat when all others are distracted by the arrival of yet another army and no one cares any longer for a single lone hobbit. Stepping into the world of wraiths is almost a blessing, this time, detaching her from what pain would await her outside, and yet she grows colder still. (There is, she knows, no way she will ever be warm again – she might as well get used to it.)

Slowly wandering back behind the tight lines of elves and retreating against the mountain she perceives little more, until the earth suddenly shakes below her feet.

A terrible, cruel number of orcs arrives then, visible to her even through veil and fade, and she feels the cold spread even further upon the realization that her betrayal, her _sacrifice_ , have all been for naught. There will be a battle, and it might claim the lives of all her Companions, no matter her desperate attempt to prevent just that-

Had she been any other hobbit, in any other circumstances, Bilbo would have done her very best to keep out of the fray, to protect herself and carefully pick her battles.

As it is, however, she is Bluebell “Bilbo” Baggins of Bag End, daughter of Belladonna Took, one of the most talented empaths the Shire has ever brought forth, contracted burglar of Thorin Oakenshield’s Company, and once-Intended of King and Consort under the Mountain. She might have lost all of that but her name, both heart and honour taken and ground to dust, but she will not ever allow those she loves to be lost if there is any way she may prevent it. (A crime against her unborn child it might be, taking this risk, but she knows not what else to do.)

Her little golden ring, it turns out, is a very useful trinket when it comes to getting torn into a battle, and just as dangerous. Neither friend nor foe will be able to see her, and she soon realizes that this is a layer of protection she will have to go without… Her mithril mail is the only one she can fall back on now.

Well, there is nothing for it.

Taking a deep breath Bilbo pushes the curious ring back into her pocket, draws her empathy as close around herself as possible, and marches up to meet the closest orc with her tiny blade.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (I have, unfortunately, always had a thing for pregnancy!drama&angst!fanfics...)
> 
> Also, I hope I didn't annoy you guys too much with the movie quotes - I try to keep those a miminum ever since I realised how boring reading those again and again and again can be :o


	15. Blue eyes crying in the rain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter's title is once more a song, this time by Willie Nelson :)
> 
> Have fun :D

### XV: Blue eyes crying in the rain

_You are our One, chosen by our Maker himself to complete us, for us to love and cherish until we return to his halls and beyond._

Hobbits are not, and never were, made for fighting.

No matter their very special abilities that might have allowed them such a powerful advantage, no matter their nimbleness and uncanny skill of walking unseen – Yavanna, quite unlike her husband, never meant for her children to be caught up in hostile actions of any kind. What battles they ever ought to fight are ones of clever wits and cunning words, and what ruthless wars they might wage are to be waged against the weeds endangering the peaceful safety of their gardens.

There are many differences between hobbits and dwarrows, no matter their Makers’ deep love and connection. In one regard, however, Yavanna made her children so very similar to Mahal’s own: their deep and unyielding love of any they have come to regard as family, be it by blood or otherwise, and their choice of One to spend their lives with, to cherish and to never love another.

And once such a bond is present, nothing may ever break it again, not even death... nothing, except, of course, for gold lust and dragon's curses.

The pain this kind of abandonment, this breaking of a vow, would force upon a dwarrow's heart is unimaginable. Bilbo... is not a dwarrow, and yet – she can but believe that Yavanna chose to give her to her husband, to complete two of his own, and as such the pain is not lessened in any way by her race, and the knowledge that neither Thorin nor Dwalin will ever cherish her again is agony in her veins.

But, there is little she can do about that now, is there?

She made her choices, and no matter the outcome, there is no way she will ever regret them.

Not when her sacrifice might have saved the lives of her newfound family.

The lives of those she loves.

Even if it might have endangered another one she loves already, one she ought to protect against every and all dangers-

(Just like they promised to protect her-)

_You are our One, to share with us in love and pain, in peace and war, in safety and peril._

There are few things both dwarrows and hobbits would not be ready to do, few sacrifices they would not offer, when those they love thusly are in danger.

For hobbits, that rarely ever means fighting – even though the Fell Winter taught them how to use their skills in battles never imagined, in order to protect their beloved and children. And Bilbo will always carry that guilt, will always know that her mother left the safety of their smial on _her_ account. Her own life was a price Belladonna was willing to pay, and when Bilbo thinks of the child growing within her... she knows that she, too, would have gladly paid that price, if it meant that they could live.

As it is, however, she is stuck amidst a battle, cruelly aware that she might be the only one able to take out Azog, that her unique skills and the breaking of the Shire's most sacred law might be what is necessary to win this fight. That she may be the only one capable of saving the lives of not only her new family, but also those of countless elves and men and other dwarrows.

And that doing so might not only mean giving up every possibility of ever returning home (her ghost-filled, _empty_ , but still ever so comforting Bag End-), but also offering her own life as well as the one she already holds dearest.

Forgive me, my Lady, but there is no choice left for me. I will have to do what is right, even if that means throwing away what you so lovingly granted me, and murdering an innocent child. _Forgive me!_

No, there is nothing else she can do but join the battle, and try her very best to survive against all odds.

_We vow to always stand by your side, to ever care for you and to never leave you unless our Maker beckons us to return to him._

So, really, none of the dwarrows, elves and men fighting for their lives on the desolated and slowly reddening slopes of the Lonely Mountain should have been surprised when a small, curly-haired and dangerously pale figure clad in earth tones and wielding a tiny, glowing dagger passes them in her mad dash across the battlefield. Most of them (except for Dáin Ironfoot’s dwarrows perhaps) did, after all, watch her climb down the freshly built rampart closing Erebor to the world not even an hour before, having born witness to the great sacrifice she offered in order to save all of their lives.

(If only Azog had not arrived with an army, she might even have been successful-)

Her winding path down into the centre of the fray leads her past friend and foe, deftly ducking around the former and quickly slashing through conveniently placed knee pits or across stomachs of the latter, allowing elf and dwarrow and human all to easily rid themselves of dangerous enemies that might otherwise have killed them.

Bilbo, a true Took both in mind and blood and ever a free spirit, skilfully exploits any and every advantage of both her nimbleness and smaller size. Having come to the conclusion that lingering in one place and thusly allowing any foes to close in on her might not be in her best interest (an insight won with a deep gash in her thigh and helped along by a few quite painful stabs to her side, back and chest that would have been deadly if not for her mithril mail) she darts across the battleground, ever closer to the centre of fray, restricted but by waning strength and the painful wound bleeding despite the tattered piece of cloth bound to staunch what blood-flow it can take.

The only upside to this terrible battle, she wildly thinks, barely ducking out of the way of a rusty sword wielded by an elderly man, is that her dwarrows are not yet part of it. (They promised to never leave her, to always stand by her side, and now that they did – this, while it hurts enough to break her heart a thousand times over, is what she is most thankful for.)

Whatever problems and heartaches my beloved’s gold-madness might have brought down on us all, at least it is now keeping him safe, him, and Dwalin, and the boys, and the rest of my mad family-

That is, of course, the very moment a loud, deep sound reverberating in her very bones rings across the battlefield as the ramparts make way for Thorin Oakenshield and his Company, to join in the battle after all.

_We vow to always accept your wisdom, to ever respect you as both a hobbit and a woman, and to never forget what you left behind for us._

Bilbo freezes mid-motion when, across the bloodied battlefield, she spots Dwalin’s charge towards the closest goblins with a mighty war cry on his lips, Grasper and Keeper thirsting for blood, the King but a step behind him with Orcrist glowing deadly blue. (It is, she only now realises, a blue terribly similar to that of Dwalin’s eyes-)

Fíli and Kíli are rushing after them, arrows already flying, and they are little more than _boys for Yavanna's sake_ -

Bloody perfect.

She can but pray that they will be careful, and not take any needless risks, or her sacrifice will have been for naught-

Cursing lowly she barely notices an angry maul being swung her way and ducks just in time, drawing her ever-sharp blade into a clumsy arc that – quite unsuspectedly – serves to cut off the arm of the orc in front of her. Immediately, blood sprays from the stump, showering her and turning her stomach, and the orc _screeches_. (This time, she needs no empathy to read the hatred from its eyes-) Quickly and frantically wrestling down the maddening nausea she jumps forward, desperately aiming at the snarling creature’s throat and thrusting Sting right through it. The moment the gurgling sounds cease the nausea rises once more, she is a hobbit for Yavanna's sake and was never meant to kill anything, let alone fight in battles-

“Watch out!”

The cry reaches her moments before she would have given in to the urge to throw up and she stumbles to the side in a wild guess of where the danger might be coming from. Thanks to more luck than judgement she narrowly escapes a blow that would have taken off the upper half of her head, and clumsily – her arms are growing heavier by the second, no matter the low weight of her blade – thrusts Sting into the vague direction of the attacker.

The deformed goblin wielding the dirty, jagged knife stares at her blankly with one eye, her glowing blade stuck in the other, and she feels the nausea rise yet again with renewed vigour.

_We swear to always be the best for you, and to never look for the worst in you._

(But that's what they did, didn't they? They not only left her side but viciously banished her from theirs, they did not listen to what she had to say or accept the truth behind her statements, they cast aside every thought of what their actions meant for her, and they took the very worst in her deeds and twisted them until all that was left was their wish to kill her. They took the vows they made in that meaningless room in Laketown, and distorted their sincerity and importance until they, too, were meaningless. Bilbo had known that it would come to that when she gave away the Arkenstone, of course she had, but – that does not make it hurt any less: That, no matter her deeds and failings, no matter her being a hobbit, and a woman... their love was not enough to overcome this ruthless sickness, and that their vows were not sincere enough to grant her what they promised. And while it _hurts_ , while she barely knows how to live with this pain in her heart, she is not surprised. After all, she is but a rebellious little hobbit, who has been unwanted for a very long time.)

(Still, it was beautiful for as long as it lasted-)

_We swear to always offer you our hearts, and to never take yours for granted._

“Careful, Miss, you cannot allow such a sight to distract you,” a melodious voice instructs her, tearing her from her depressing thoughts (that banished even the gruesome sight of Sting lodged in that goblin's eye from her mind) and she recognizes it to be the same that shouted the earlier warning.

Raising her narrowed gaze from the goblin’s head Bilbo spots a tall, dark-haired elf.

“T-thanks,” she murmurs, ever aware of the cruel pain in her thigh, neck and ear, as well as her slowly but surely waning strength, and pulls Sting from the now dead creature’s eye socket. In detached fascination she watches the elf draw her beautiful sword into a perfectly deadly arc, cutting off two heads in one elegant blow. She seems rather young, to Bilbo’s inexperienced eye, and the hobbit wonders what she is doing on this bloody battlefield if she is like her boys, little more than a child-

But the boys, of course, are not _her_ boys anymore.

_We shall always cherish you, body mind and soul._

Chancing a brief look across the battlefield in this moment of respite, knowing that the young elf will watch her back, Bilbo allows her eyes to search for her dwarrows.

She knows well that these small duels cost her time, and perhaps too much, for Azog's advance will have been neigh unstoppable, and she knows both King and Consort well enough to not cherish any illusions about them holding back. Thorin, no matter whether gold-mad or not, will not allow the Pale Orc to take another of his line as long as he lives.

And there is no question who Azog will target first.

(He, too, knows of course – that Fíli and Kíli are little more than boys, and as such most hot-headed as well as least experienced.)

No, what will be necessary to defeat Azog the Defiler are a cool, sharp mind, and nothing left to lose-

Bilbo is, unfortunately, not at all surprised when she spots the White Warg, felled by an arrow that can only be Kíli's, and a few paces down the Pale Orc: Facing both King and Consort (who, for once, made the sensible decision of not confronting him alone) he is once more a picture of confidence, with Balin, Glóin and the boys barely able to hold back the mass of orcs and goblins pouring in to stab them in the back.

There is little time left.

Bloody _fucking_ perfect.

Shouting her thanks to the elf who saved her life she allows for her fingers to slide into the pocket of her poor battered waistcoat and quickly slip on her ring as she abruptly releases the tight control over her empathy.

The emotions of every living creature around her come rushing in in time with her vision being reduced to blacks and greys once more, making her stumble with the sudden overload of sensations. Yet she allows herself no reprieve, pushing her sixth sense out and towards her dwarrows, past all the fear and hatred and _agony_ of the battlefield, farther than she has ever pushed it before, while hurriedly making her way towards them as fast as possible, with little left to focus on her own safety.

It _hurts_ , in a way she has never felt before (though she has, of course, heard the stories of hobbits thusly overextending their gifts, and has even seen the terrible pallor and _gauntness_ of a cousin who went too far, during the Fell Winter, but what choice does she have?), pulling and tearing at her and sucking what little strength she has left from her veins.

And yet, she knows – there is nothing else to do.

Azog raises his mace, clawed hand half caught up in Thorin’s sword arm (hot, piercing _pain_ churning up the water, climbing higher and higher, and almost drowning out the desperation of the old maelstrom-), and Bilbo knows that she was right.

There is only one way to save them now, but one possible path to take if she does not wish for the enemy to be victorious.

(One that will ostracize her in ways being banished cannot ever compare to-)

There is a deed few hobbits – only the strongest of empaths – are ever capable of, and it is feared and hated as much as it is rare. All who have the ability are strongly encouraged to never _ever_ use it, and doing so none the less… leaves a mark, dark and condemning and recognizable to all hobbits of the Shire. Doing so will cost one not only every right to reside within hobbit lands, but might also claim one’s access to the Lady’s Green Fields.

But, Bilbo knew that this was what it would come down to the moment Azog stepped onto the battlefield.

Stumbling closer still, weaving her way between orcs and goblins with little of her former nimbleness left, she wraps herself around the hateful flame that is _Azog_ just as he raises his mace to claim Thorin’s head.

Clawing her way as deeply in as possible she _twists_ the hatred with everything she has left.

Azog wavers and stumbles, the sudden flare of _love_ (of all things-) stopping him long enough to allow both Grasper and Keeper to slam into him-

_And we shall never allow any hurt to reach you as long as we live to prevent it._

Bilbo barely feels herself sway and fall to her knees, the ring slipping off her numb finger, as an inexplicable _darkness_ washes through her. Around her a great clamour arises upon Azog’s fall and she feels _everything_ , every single emotion of man, dwarrow, elf, orc and goblin crashes into and through her, mercilessly incinerating and washing away her own until there is nothing left but a wide ocean of pain and sorrow.

Nothing, but pain and sorrow and the frozen terror in deep water and hot magma when something – _something_ – crashes into her.

(So that is what their laws warned them about-)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo, of course, being the one to scold her dwarves the loudest for mindlessly charging into potentially deadly situations because they think it's the only way, is excellent at doing so herself :)


	16. Tangled up in Blue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be honest... I was very, _very_ tempted to make you wait a little longer for this chapter. But, I'm a good girl... have fun! :p
> 
> Tangled Up In Blue is a song by the awesome Bob Dylan <3

### XVI: Tangled up in Blue

The water is frozen.

There is an undeniable beauty to it: An enormous maelstrom, reaching as far as the eye can see, stretches into every direction; whipped up waves as high as mountains, torn along by the whirling currents, frozen in mid-movement. The pure white cresting the waves speaks of an unbearable pain, of torture created by the ruthless speed of the once swirling waters.

Cold ice, as far as any eye can see – and yet, there is something else.

It takes ages to travel there, and at the same time one can reach it within the blink of an eye:

A volcano, once standing tall and strong, frozen mid-explosion.

An explosion that has ripped apart the mountain, an explosion as merciless and all-consuming as the maelstrom.

The agony clinging to every sliver and splinter, every boulder, every _moment_ is crippling, and the lava pressing ever outward, freezing as soon as it reaches the surface, is a pitiless concoction of guilt and shame and self-hatred.

We did this. _I_ did this. I vowed to protect her, and I couldn’t have failed, couldn’t have _betrayed_ any her more cruelly-

...

It almost hurts to look at it, all this beauty, created by pain.

But, there is something else, something... outside this world of terror and agony, something _more_.

And yet she cannot grasp it, cannot allow any of those sensations – movement, noise, emotions, _pain_ – to draw her from this place.

Here, amidst all the grief and horror, is the only place she is safe, that much she knows with doubtless conviction.

Lost in the terrible beauty of the frozen maelstrom and volcano is the only way she might survive, after what she did.

_What she did._

This... was a sacrifice no one, not even the Grey Wizard, will ever be able to comprehend, for none of them know the true magnitude of her crime, the extent of this betrayal against the Green Lady herself.

There is a darkness, a _taint_ , branded to her very soul now that will never leave, a destruction that cannot be undone.

(And perhaps this has cut the last ties to her dwarrows, perhaps even they will never forgive her for thusly abusing her gift. And yet, she knows that she would do it again in a heartbeat, if that were what saved those she loves. There is nothing, _nothing_ , she would not do if it meant guaranteeing their safety.)

There is little she can do to help them now, though, caught here as she is.

And perhaps she ought to let go, perhaps she ought to desert the safety of this place and leave behind all hopes of both survival and maybe even forgiveness... but it is not only her life at stake here, not only herself she is responsible for, and- ... there is, after all, _nothing she would not do for those she loves_.

(Especially for this one she already thought lost-)

A sudden darkness stretches across the frozen plains, spanning farther than any mortal soul can ever comprehend and drowning out even the all-consuming pain clinging to this place.

 _Gandalf_.

Somehow she knows, without a sliver of doubt, that this grand, _ancient_ expanse must be the Grey Wizard, no matter the undreamt-of magnitude of the dark sky drawing her into weightless nothingness, incomparable to what her senses led her to believe were the extent of _Gandalf_ before she thusly blasted every sliver of control she ever had over her empathy.

“Bilbo.”

The deep voice sounds like thunder rumbling in the distance, words danced by nature herself.

How... is this possible?

“Bilbo, can you hear me?”

...yes?

But, how is she supposed to answer?

Wildly looking around there is naught to be found but darkness, nothing to hold onto-

A small, ever so delicate sliver of sunlight breaks through the dark, nothingness suddenly driven away by black storm clouds and lashing ice-cold rain.

 _Hope_.

If Gandalf – who might not know about the consequences of her thusly twisting another's emotions, but who has seen hobbits overextending their empathy in the aftermath of the Fell Winter – can nourish hope for her, then so can she.

The rain is icy, mercilessly hitting her face and drenching her in cold fear, but the sliver of hope is _there_ , and she will not give up until she has fought her way through to it! The cold may be cruel, freezing her to the bone, and yet it is a weak pain in comparison to what coldness plagued her after she cut herself off, alone in a battlefield with naught but blood and her own emotions her companions. (It is a weak pain in comparison to dangling above an abyss, with sharp metal pitilessly digging into the sensitive skin of her neck-)

“Bilbo.”

Gandalf.

She needs to reach him-

“Bilbo, can you hear me?”

The thunder rumbles in the distance and everywhere around her, roaring in deep concern-

Reaching the warmth of the ray of sunlight feels like stepping into her garden in the Shire on a warm summer's day, like sitting down on the small bench in front of Bag End and smoking a pipe of Old Toby, like smelling the lush lavender shrubs once planted by her mother because her father so loved them in full bloom once more.

Gandalf.

“Bilbo,” the thunder rumbles, and a distinct gust of relief blows across the expanse, scattering the dark clouds and drying the icy fear. “How deep did you go?”

And – despite the wonderful, growing warmth of the ray and the slowly brightening skies she wavers upon this remainder of her rather hopeless situation, the convenient distraction provided by her attempt to reach this sliver of sun suddenly fizzling away.

Deep.

A lightening flashes in the distance, sharp worry zig-zagging across the dark grey expanse.

“Can you find your way back?”

She hesitates once more, wondering for a moment how much she can hide, in this conversation she has no control over. Which of all the thoughts chasing each other in her overwhelmed mind are the ones to reach him, and which can she keep to herself? She does not even know how to express herself in a way he can understand, though the deep wish of communicating single words appears to have been successful so far-

Perhaps.

The wind takes up again, relief gentle against her cooled skin.

“Then why don't you try?”

Is it not obvious?

I... stretched myself too far. I don't have anything left to control the onslaught with.

She can only hope that he will understand this message as well, so much more complicated than the simple words before-

“I can help you.”

Her thoughts stutter to a stop.

You... can?

This time it is gentle amusement that hums with the wind, along with an incredible fondness.

(And that, in truth, is what gives her the will to try – that there is someone left, after all, who still _cares_ about her.)

“Who do you believe showed Cullen his way back?”

Cullen Took – the tween who almost tore himself apart during the Fell Winter, trying to reach his family in Tuckborough when he and his younger siblings were caught in that terrible blizzard on their way back home and barely managed to find shelter in time. He held on, too, for almost three nights, until Gandalf and the Rangers came to help him- ...

_Oh._

A gentle chuckle blows across her, then, and the incredible warmth of it makes her feel even more hopeful that, perhaps, there will be a future worth living for her after all-

“It won't be easy, though.”

...well. So much about that. But... it never is, is it? And yet... all doubts Gandalf succeeded at chasing away suddenly return with a vengeance, mercilessly slamming into her and clawing their way back into her battered heart.

What if-

Gandalf... how badly am I hurt?

A nondescript hum breezes across the expanse, and were she not so close to panicking, to loosing her bloody mind– she would have been amazed that this trademark answer of his translates even into this kind of conversation.

“Badly, but Óin is hopeful.”

Óin – that means that they at least care enough to have her treated... right? Right??

And perhaps they will even-

Gandalf!

The panic slams into her without mercy or consideration.

“What is it?”

If Óin found out-

Gandalf, do they know- ...

The sky, having darkened in sudden worry upon her panic-ridden exclamation, brightens once more in gentle understanding.

“That their seed bore fruit? Indeed.”

But-

What-

How-

She can't-

“Why don't you come and see for yourself?”

(Apparently, Gandalf heard everything she thought after all. Or he knows her, indeed, very well-)

I... can't!

“Of course you can,” the thunder hums, and how is such a thing even possible?? “I know you're afraid, and no one could ever fault you for that, after everything that's happened. But, you fled to their emotions, didn't you? I know little about your people's abilities, but I do suspect that would have been the only way for you to hold on. And if you were there, you must know what they felt, what they _are feeling_. How deeply they regret what they did, and how terribly they fear for you.”

I...

She finds herself quite lost for words, then, for Gandalf... is right.

The maelstrom, created by Thorin believing her lost to him, and the explosion she suspects to have been triggered by a similar reason...

...are you sure?

“Of course,” Gandalf confirms without hesitation, strong conviction wafting through the air. “Are you ready to come back?”

You'll help me regain control?

“Naturally.”

Bilbo hesitates for another moment, then, ever aware of everything she will lose if this does not work out – her sanity, for one, as well as her life along with her unborn child's – before forcefully reminding herself of what she might win.

(Her heart, she knows, is long lost and broken, along with her honour as well as innocence. So, really, there is not so much she has left to lose after all.)

I... alright. Let's go.

“Let's,” the rumbling thunder hums, and time seems to stop for a moment before – it, Gandalf, _everything_ slams into her-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm well aware that this chapter is a little confusing, since I refused to highlight Bilbo's "answers" in any way, but that was on purpose.  
> Anyway, I hope you understood what I wanted to say :)


	17. Black and Blue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So far I've had a terrible day (and it's only been four hours O_o), but, well. It can only get better, right? (No, that's not a challenge.)  
> Anyway, I'm a wreck, but I do like this chapter... writing it was a lot of fun, and I hope you'll enjoy reading it just as much.  
> (God, I'm just a hopeless dramaqueen-)

### XVII: Black and Blue

The maelstrom is no longer frozen.

Nor is it quite that all-consuming.

(There are, however, additional layers of different kinds of pain, waves whipped-up and waters churning. And yet – the unrestrained, desperate hope dancing in the white crests is powerful, and not so easily banished.)

The volcano... still shows visible signs of the disastrous explosion but it, too, is standing strong once more.

The molten heat deep within is unsettlingly calm, quite unlike what she is used to, but the occasional bubbles reaching the surface and sending ripples across the red-hot plains are filled with hope and love of their own.

“Bilbo.”

Opening her eyes turns out to be harder than ever before, but Bilbo – still a little overwhelmed by the many emotions around her, and more than exhausted, but blissfully awake none the less – forces them to comply until thoughtfully dimmed light finally reaches her.

The expanse still spanning across her is brighter than ever before, with no more clouds in sight.

“Gan-...dalf.”

My voice, Bilbo distantly thinks, sounds as though I've eaten a pound of gravel-; and – slowly, burningly, unstoppably – the pain begins to register.

Her throat is still raw, and from the strange sensation against her skin she can tell that her neck must be bandaged, along with her head (in order to cover her ear?) and thigh – the dull throbbing pulsing through the latter vaguely reminding her of how her side felt the first few days after the injury she received from the orc just East of the Misty Mountains.

“How are you feeling?”

So much about that, huh?

(And it is not all that easy to focus on herself, really, what with Thorin and Dwalin's emotions still ever so prominent-)

Painfully raising an eyebrow Bilbo is half-satisfied to see the trademark Baggins glare show its intended effect even through eyes barely open, for Gandalf averts his curious gaze and withers a little underneath it. (Sometimes she cannot help but think that the Grey Wizard ought to be treated like a mischievous fauntling, for all that he behaves much like one half of the time.)

“Ow,” she summarizes the lingering, simmering pain, both physical and emotional. Her head might as well have burst, too, if the sharp twinging is any indication.

Gandalf, blurred but unmistakable, nods quite un-helpfully.

“That was to be expected,” he hums, pursing his lips that way he does when not entirely happy with whatever, and she feels careful fingers card through her dirty curls. “Do you remember what happened, after whatever you did in order to render Azog incapable of delivering that killing blow?”

Bilbo shakes her head, then, or rather tries to, but even the tiniest movement sends hot pain travelling down her nerves.

Whimpering out a pained “No” she squinches her eyes shut once more and ignores the opening of a door she cannot see from where she is lying, fists clenched as she fights against the tears threatening to spill, and half-prays for the ache to abate.

“You were attacked by Bolg, Azog's... _son_. He was going to take his club to your head. Had he succeeded... well, I do not believe you would have survived.”

(Bloody old codger – ridiculously stingy about sharing any information actually relevant, but unnecessarily generous when it comes to details one could have done without knowing.)

“Thank Mahal he was stopped,” someone else adds, the voice deep and rough, and if not for the sudden hitch of _fear_ in the red-hot pool she would not have realized-

…

Dwalin.  
(The onslaught of sensations she has had to deal with in these past few... hours? Days? Whatever – is more than enough reason for being quite that slow, thank you very much!)

“Kíli shot him down moments before he got to you,” Gandalf calmly explains, still gently caressing whatever parts of her head do not send spikes of flame through her brain when touched. “It was close – he stumbled, and fell, which made his intended swing veer off course enough that he barely more than graced you. Still, I imagine you have an exorbitant headache, especially since the overtaxing of your _gift_ will have lead to a similar effect.”

“Gandalf,” she protests, aware that someone entered the room, and that Dwalin is present, painfully forcing her eyes open once more, “you can't-”

“And he didn't,” Óin grouses from about where her thigh injury ought to be (so he was the one who only just arrived-), “didn't betray a thing.” And the distinct unhappiness in the clear waters running ever down tells her more clearly than anything else how hard they most certainly tried to make him spill none the less. Bother. “How was I supposed to treat you without knowing?”

“T's a secret,” she mutters stubbornly, not daring to turn her head in an attempt to look at him, or maybe – if she were feeling particularly courageous – even Dwalin.

(Thorin, too, ought to be somewhere close, with how clearly she can feel his emotions-)

“I don't care if it's a secret, if it makes your condition any worse. It's not like I would have spread the word!”

“I know you are an honourable dwarrow, and first and foremost a healer, Master Óin,” Gandalf says sternly, “but I swore an oath before Yavanna herself.” (And that explains a few things, too.) “You cannot ask of me to disregard that, not even for someone I care about as deeply as Bilbo.”

New warmth floods her as Bilbo listens to their grousing, which she did not expect to hear ever again, her eyes slowly fluttering close once more, exhaustion overriding even the sharpening pain of the healer's blunt finger's against the wound.

“I told you what dangers would come of it, and what I could do to counter them. Which I did, by the way.”

“Perhaps we could simply agree that both of you did your best to help?” Balin gently admonishes from across the room, the rustle of parchment accompanying his every movement, and the soft breeze of relief and hope (with an unmistakable undercurrent of annoyance) is pleasantly cool against her skin.

Óin grumbles and Gandalf mutters something unintelligible into his long, grey beard, but both appear to relent for the time being – though either's emotions remain faintly miffed. (For all his complaining about dwarven thickheaded- and stubbornness, in that regard the Grey Wizard is in no way inferior to even the worst of them!)

“Bilbo,” another voice says, quite unsuspectedly, and – suddenly torn from her exhausted musings about Gandalf – it takes her shamefully long to identify the speaker once more (though the sudden, merciless currents of nervousness and worry should have been a tell-tale clue), “I know you must be tired, and we should let you sleep, but... perhaps, would you allow us to talk about a few matters first?”

There is an unmistakable dissatisfaction to both Óin's shoals and Gandalf's storm-clouds (it is incredible how similar those two curmudgeons can be-), but neither speaks up when Bilbo does.

“If you... come over here... where I can see you?”

Talking is painful in a whole new way, the words not only dry on her lips and numb on her tongue but also sharp in her throat, a cruel reminder that she was almost strangled not too long ago-

A tiny sliver of relief lightens both Thorin's and Dwalin's once more restless emotions and she hears them plod around whatever bed she has been laid upon, Gandalf grudgingly moving away so they might step into her range of vision.

“We'll leave you to talk, then,” Balin prompts from where he has apparently abandoned his paperwork, and half-wrestles both Óin and the Grey Wizard out of the room without any mercy or regard for their rank.

Bilbo, however, barely realizes.

Her dulled and fraying but forcefully controlled attention is focussed solely on the two dwarrows before her (even though the terrifying fear slowly but surely making its way through her veins, racing her heart and turning her stomach, is ever-present), tired eyes quickly cataloguing every visible injury either of them sustained.

Thorin's sword arm is wrapped in thick bandages and held in a sling (and she remembers the sight of Azog's claw lodged in it only too well-) and Dwalin is sporting countless bruises as well as a limp and a mean, stitched cut across his eyebrow, but apart from that they appear to be... alright.

Thank Yavanna.

“Bilbo,” Thorin rumbles unhappily, fingers twitching as though they were reaching for hers and he does not allow them to, “we cannot even begin to say how much we regret everything that happened. We...”

Everything-

“We not only broke our vows and allowed you to be injured, but also were the ones who harmed you, and cast you away,” Dwalin continues, pale blue eyes filled with sorrow and shame. “We promised that we'd always accept your wisdom and ignored what truths you spoke, we swore to never leave your side and banished you, we even requested your head as punishment – and still you stayed, and sacrificed even more in order to protect us. _Again_. There are no words to describe how much we regret what pain we put you through, and fewer still to fashion into an apology you might accept. Yet, there is little else we can do but offer those apologies and do whatever we can to atone for our failings-”

“All we ask- … _beg_ of you,” Thorin painfully enunciates, voice low and hoarse and _desperate_ , “is that we might see them. We... we know you have no reason to stay here, with us, and that it would be too much to ask whether we might visit you in the Shire, sometimes, in order to make sure you are alright. Just, _please_ – allow us to see our child, at least once. I beg you-”

“Thorin,” Bilbo whispers, forcing the words past her uncooperative throat and tongue and lips once she understands the meaning of his wild rambling, “I cannot return to the Shire.” Ever.

And perhaps that is not the most pressing problem right now, perhaps she ought to bring up the matter of the Arkenstone, or her banishment, or all those other problems standing between them, but – there is a deep pain reverberating in her battered heart, half coming from their desperate plea that they might see their (their!) child and half stemming from her own fear of not knowing how she might survive seeing them with said child, and her head hurts something awful, and she has gone far beyond exhaustion, and they put her through such emotional pain not long ago... so, really, she is quite proud that she managed to say something that made sense in the first place, _really_ -

Both of them freeze at her statement, before exchanging a careful glance she does not miss even in this light.

“Of course you can-”

“No. No, I _can't_. After what I did-” Taking a deep breath hurts (her ribs do not appear to have taken particularly kindly to being stabbed against mithril mail), but helps her clear her head none the less. “I can't.”

“Bilbo...” Dwalin falters mid-sentence, but gulps heavily and soldiers on, unmistakable desperation a gleaming sheen against the molten heat, “you should know that you will always be welcome here. I... _we_ do not honestly expect you to stay, after everything that we did, but Erebor's gates will always be open to you!”

“Nothing would make us happier than if you stayed,” Thorin adds hoarsely, and it is the terrified sincerity dancing across achingly sad waves that makes Bilbo fully open her eyes after all.

“I'm sorry,” she forces past her burning throat, past her numb tongue and number lips, “for taking the Arkenstone. I knew... I knew how much that would hurt you, and... I still did it. But- but I didn't know what else to do!”

Desperately gasping for breath she knows she is fighting a loosing battle against the tears threatening to spill any moment, every movement like fire to her nerves-

“Shh,” Dwalin murmurs, and cautiously reaches for one of her so much smaller hands after all, “please, calm down, or Óin will flay us alive! We know... we know how much we failed you, we know that you were _right_. Even now, none of us could think of any other way you might have prevented battle with the elves and men. You did the right thing, Bilbo.”

“But- … it still hurt you,” she wheezes, desperate to make them understand, to make them realize that she is never going to make light of the depth of her betrayal, not ever- “I _know_ how much! I never... _never_ wanted to hurt you but... I didn't know what else to do and- and- and... and when I told you- … I betrayed you so badly- you were so shocked that it was _me_ -”

“Bilbo,” Thorin rumbles, eyes frantic, “look at me. Look at me! Please, breathe... we forgave you the moment our minds were clear once more. Yes, you hurt us, but we hurt you so much more! Please-”

“You forgive me?” Bilbo hears herself gasp, a desperate hope she did not allow herself to cherish until now suddenly sparking to life in her heart.

“We do,” Dwalin confirms, heavy sincerity deepening his voice and a desperate hope of his own a roiling heat. “There is no one we will ever cherish like you, Bilbo, and nothing we regret more than ever having hurt you. We would... if our transgressions were any less grave we would beg you to take us back, to stay with us and allow us to atone for everything we did, but-”

“You- still want me?”

(She would have called that voice pitiful, her words pathetic, if she had any capacities left to _think_ -)

The tall warrior falters for a moment, then, put off his stride by the woefully unexpected question, before exchanging yet another of those glances with his husband-

Bilbo feels her poor heart race when they turn to kneel before her as one, blue eyes so very sincere and wild hope suddenly stirring up cool waters and molten heat alike.

“Always.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaand there comes the merciless kitsch...


	18. Love is Blue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter’s title is a song by Paul Mauriat.
> 
> Enjoy :)

### XVIII: Love is Blue

They still want me. They still want me. They still want me they still want me they still want me-

Taking a deep breath Bilbo feels most of the pain and tension leave her body in time with the air flowing from her lips, the dark exhaustion dancing at the edges of her consciousness attacking her with renewed vigour upon this confirmation. And yet...

There was so much pain, such a depth of _betrayal_ between them, that she needs... well, more.

“Really?” she whispers, still almost desperate for assurance, and is rewarded when a large, calloused hand reaches for hers once again.

“Really,” Thorin promises lowly, a cautious smile slowly making its way onto his lips. “There is nothing – _nothing_ – that would make either of us happier than you returning to our sides. We'd never ask you to do so, that is a right we spurned in madness, when we believed gold to be of higher importance than the ones we love, but... well, if you'd want to...” he clears his throat, painfully closing his eyes for a moment, and the agonizing _hope_ stirring the waves makes her heart break all over again, “whatever you wish, we'll comply. If there is anything, anything at all, we can do for you Bilbo, then we will.”

“Not only because we owe you a lifetime of atonement,” Dwalin adds, voice deep and craggy, “but also because we _want_ to. We want to give you everything you might ever want and need, to finally offer you what we ought to offer our One.”

“If you asked us to leave Erebor and come with you, we would,” Thorin vows, and the pain dancing atop the wild waves, white crests mocking and taunting the hope underneath, is rife with fear of losing her – with not a single ripple singing of the Lonely Mountain and its treasures in sight. (And that, more than anything else, more than all the pain and hope and shame, is what convinces her that Thorin Oakenshield, King under the Mountain, is speaking true when he claims to love her, and Dwalin, above all else – above Erebor, and all the gold within-) “Please, Bilbo, believe me, _us_. I'd never lie to you, not about that, we'd do _anything_ for you-”

“I do,” Bilbo hoarsely interrupts him when she feels the surface rise in time with his tears, and Thorin crying is something she will not be able to deal with, not now. “I do, I do believe you, I _know_... I know.”

Both of them relax the tiniest little bit at that, either still carefully cradling one of her smaller hands, and Dwalin raises his pale gaze to meet her blurred one.

“But why?” he demands, almost desperately, “Why would you believe us?”

And... well.

It is about time she spills that secret, isn't it? They deserve to know, and... perhaps knowing this will alter their opinion, maybe it will make them cast her away once more after all, but – no matter how much pain that would heap upon her barely mending heart, she would rather know now than find out later.

Sleep will have to wait a little longer, it seems, and Bilbo sighs deeply when the dark spots dancing and twirling beckon her closer once more. She really is beyond exhausted, barely able to even think, but this – she needs to do this. “Could you... help me sit?”

(Óin will, most certainly, not be excited. At all.)

“I'm... not sure that's a good idea,” Thorin carefully hedges, ever more diplomatic than his husband, and worry crests the murky, restless waters.

“I doubt you're allowed to be sitting already,” Dwalin, however, bluntly declines, scowling fiercely. “Besides, if we help you, we'll be screwed just as well!”

“At least we'll go down together,” Bilbo weakly jokes, and the sudden surge of intense _affection_ coming from either of them gives her the strength to slowly pull her hands from their gentle grip and carefully reach for the headboard of her bed. (It appears to be of quite intricately carved design, much like the ones she spotted in the royal tract when she was hiding from both King and Consort, the Arkenstone concealed in her pocket-) “You're right, it's most certainly not a good idea, but I- … there's something I need to tell you, and I'm that close to falling asleep again, and I, I just... I want to – clarify our, our situation. Just so that I, you know, _know_. Where I, ah, stand... with you. I-I don't... I don't want to sleep and risk-”

“You wouldn't risk anything with catching the sleep you need in order to heal, Bilbo,” Dwalin murmurs with a low sigh, understanding bubbling up in the deep pool and strong arms already creeping around her shoulders. “We'd still be here once you wake up, to finish any conversations you might wish to have... for as long as you do wish to have any, for as long as you want to see us.”

She gulps heavily, then (and it feels quite like tearing her throat apart-), the sincerity burning deep in the molten heat reassuring, but no quite enough, not after everything that has happened. “Please-”

“It'll be your arse on the line along with ours,” the tall warrior grumbles surly but ever so gently, before helpfully adding “This will hurt like shit!”

That is the only warning she receives before he carefully raises her into a sitting position against the headboard (with Thorin one-handedly adjusting the surprisingly fluffy cushions so she might sit comfortably), stabilising her head and neck with strong, familiar fingers. His care is heart-warming, really, and yet – it barely lessens the excruciating pain setting her nerves on fire once more, and taking far longer to abate this time.

(It is only when she hears them discuss whether they should get Óin after all that she finds the strength to force her eyes open once again-)

“Bilbo,” Thorin rumbles unhappily, shakily reaching out to wipe away tears she does not remember crying, “we shouldn't have-”

“No,” she interrupts him, “I- I'm alright. I'll... It's not that bad.” (It so is, especially with the renewed throbbing in her thigh slowly registering now that the abating pain in her head allows her think again-)

“Alright,” Dwalin concedes, reaching for her smaller fingers once more, though she can tell ( _feel-_ ) that neither of them believe her. “What... what did you wish to talk about?” The old hope once more fights its way to the surface, then, though fear and a terrifying boulder of self-disgust are weighing it down, pushing and pulling and drowning-

“I, ah... what I told you about in Laketown,” Bilbo forcefully tears herself from his emotions, no longer able to withstand them in her exhausted state. If she does not distance herself now, they will swallow her whole, and Gandalf's attempts at helping her will all have been for naught-

“The secret of your people you wished to share with us?” Thorin asks solemnly, and Bilbo takes another – painful – deep breath.

“Yes... that. I...”

“You don't have to,” Dwalin gently reminds her, blunt fingers now dancing through her dirtied curls much like Gandalf's did.

“I... I know. I just, it's important. And I need to know that it's... alright. For you. To... be with me. Once you… well, know.”

“Bilbo,” Thorin rumbles, “you're our One. We were _made_ for each other. Whatever it is, you will not succeed at driving us away, now or ever.”

Smiling a little unsuccessfully Bilbo takes another deep breath, clinging to the pain for a moment in a desperate attempt to find her courage. She took on a dragon, _alone_ , she fought in a battle, _alone_ , she left the Shire – _alone_ (until the Company succeeded at worming their way into her heart-) – and she will have this conversation... to make sure that she will never be alone again.

“It's a... uh... delicate matter,” she begins, averting her gaze as she debates how to best break it to them.

“We know it's a secret, and we swear we'll never tell a soul unless you ask us to,” Thorin immediately vows, and Dwalin nods his sincere assent.

“I... thank you for that, but... there's more to it than that. You see... well. Gandalf called it a _gift_ , and that's pretty much what this is about – an ability gifted to us by the Green Lady. It's... something only hobbits are capable of, and also the reason we keep to ourselves, and stay away from Big Folk. It's also the main cause for our barely ever marrying outside our own people, since it's... hard, for most others, to deal with it.”

“Deal with what, Bilbo?” the King gently prods when she remains silent for a little too long, and Bilbo raises her gaze to meet his deeply blue one.

She gulps once more upon seeing the sincere love in his eyes, her throat set on fire again, and basks in their warm conviction that, whatever it is, will not, _cannot_ drive them away – not now that they allowed their hearts to nurture hope of having her return to their side once more.

“With the fact that we, well, that we're able to... feel others' emotions. We call it _empathy_ ,” she soldiers on when all she meets upon this declaration is surprise and a fair amount of confusion, but no anger or disgust, “and it allows us to... _read_ another, for lack of better wording. Within a certain range, I can tell what everyone around me is feeling... that's how I _know_. I know exactly how much I hurt you, because... because... I _felt_ it, I felt your pain and anger, your h-hatred, and your d-desire to k-k-kill what caused you so much a-agony-”

She is, quite unsurprisingly, crying by now, sobs shaking her slight body and sending hot, excruciating fire down her nerves, but she has no strength left, nothing to fight the desperation with-

The arms suddenly wrapped around her from either side are strong and _safe_ , steadying her and allowing her dwarrows’ warmth to seep into her.

_Her dwarrows._

“If we'd known-”

Thorin has never before sounded quite that angry at anyone, not even Thranduil, and for a moment Bilbo is terrified, afraid she might have lost _everything_ , before the restless, frantic waters overwhelm her and engulf her in the cruel realization that the sharp, rigid anger is directed at the King himself.

“Mahal, Bilbo, I... I remember... most of what happened, of what I thought and _felt_ during my madness, and I – can't help but wish that I didn't. Remember, I mean. I can't even imagine how much that must have hurt you-”

“You don't understand,” Bilbo sobs, interrupting him once more, “I knew what I was doing! I knew- … I know exactly how badly I hurt _you_!”

“You did hurt us,” Dwalin admits, voice hoarse and molten heat burning with shame and pain and self-loathing, “but once we woke – the only pain we still had any right to feel was what pain we heaped upon our own hearts. If we hadn't acted so shamefully, you wouldn't have been forced to make any decisions that would've come to hurt us. Bilbo – please, believe me when I say that we have fully and truly forgiven you. You must be able to feel my sincerity! We do not blame you for anything, and what pain you wrought upon us was pain we wrought upon ourselves by thusly breaking our vows. Please, _please_ don't torture yourself about this any further!”

The magma is agitated, splashes and droplets wildly dancing across the surface and burning her with every touch-

I love you, Bilbo, please-

How could I, we, do this to her-

I wish I could make her believe-

If I could go back and change everything that hurt her-

_Please-_

And she knows them so well by now, has sunken so deeply into their emotions and clawed her way even deeper in, every trickle of water and drop of molten heat so familiar – she cannot read only their emotions but draw most thoughts from them, if she allows herself to feel with them once more. And that, knowing what they are thinking, is too much.

Don't leave us! We'll make you forget-

“I won't,” she gasps, still sobbing, “please, stop it, I won't leave, not for as long as you want me to stay! Just, don't torture yourself either! I love you, _please_ -”

“Bilbo!” Thorin almost yells at her, making her snap open her eyes clenched close and stare at him in panic- “It's alright. I promise. If... it will take us a long time, to forgive ourselves for what we did to you, but – if it hurts you, we'll... we'll do anything for you, Bilbo, and if you stay-”

“P-put... put my braids back in?” she begs him the moment she finds herself able of doing so, white-knuckled fingers clinging to their strong arms. “Please?”

“You- … want us to return them?” Dwalin asks, the disaster waiting to explode freezing mid-motion in his surprise.

“If...” Bilbo falters, painfully afraid that they might not want to- “if you'd... like me to... wear them again?”

Thorin takes a deep breath, agonizing hope racing both waves and his heart. “Bilbo, the way we took them... no dwarrow would ever allow us to braid new ones, let alone just... just like that. Are you sure?”

Am I sure that I wish to tie you to me as strongly as possible, so that I'll never have to let you go again?

“I'm a hobbit,” she murmurs hoarsely. “And if you'd take me back... I'd be a fool indeed if I did not accept anything you still wish to offer me.”

“Bilbo,” Dwalin moans, face hidden against her neck where his knuckle-dusters cut the sensitive skin, and the moisture beginning to gather in her bandage makes all her thoughts slam to a halt. “We'd offer you _everything_.”

“Then- … _please_ -”

Thorin's trembling fingers are lost in a small poach on a leather band resting securely against his chest, fumbling out two dirtied golden braids fixed with beads she knows only too well. He pulls them off both unravelling strands of hair, pressing one into Dwalin's shaking hand, and but moments later Bilbo feels quivering fingers dance against her head where no bandages lay, hastily braiding the familiar patterns to rest against her temples once more, if a little higher than before.

She tries her best to raise her heavy, _heavy_ arms too, “I- need to-”

“When you're awake again,” Thorin reassures her, smiling gently with a few tears of his own rolling down weathered cheeks. “I can barely wait, but for now – your health takes priority. Sleep.”

Dwalin has already arranged her to lie against his strong chest, half in his lap, and the last sensation reaching her is that of lips carefully dancing across her closed eyes.

Then Irmo's unforgiving grasp finally closes around her as he tears her from this world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahaha, so much drama here... _drrrama_! :D  
>  And the crying... :D :D


	19. Three colours: Blue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title I chose for this chapter is, apparently, the name of a French drama movie... I've never seen it :D
> 
> Either way, I can't help but think it fits the mood perfectly.

### XIX: Three colours: Blue

Seeing her still a little clumsy, but ever so familiar braids secured in Thorin and Dwalin's hair once more, the brothers to their own betrothal beads a comfortable weight in her fingers, settles something within Bilbo she never thought a sight so simple as a braid might thusly influence.

And yet – while she may be Yavanna's child she was made to complete two of Mahal's finest, of sturdy enough stuff to follow them across Middle-Earth, to confront a dragon and win a battle, and to dwell underneath rock and stone for the rest of her life.

“Thank you, Bilbo,” Thorin whispers against her un-bandaged ear, the ever-present pain and shame arising when he is reminded of what happened to the other one. “You're an incredible creature.”

“Well, I have to be, to put up with you – _and_ your sister-sons,” she teases gently, slowly feeling more like herself now after a long rest, and carefully tugs at the freshly tied-off braid. “And your child, no doubt, will be just as stubborn, being of Durin's blood.”

A pleasant shiver runs through the both of them upon hearing her speak of their child growing within her (and they really consider the child to be _theirs_ , no matter who actually fathered it – dwarrows, most certainly, are strange. Also, this is one of the many strangenesses Bilbo finds to be much preferable over the Shire's strict, inflexible rules.), and they reach out almost as one to cradle their large hands against her still flat belly. (Which is something they have been doing ever since she permitted them to after waking up for the second time after the battle, barely an hour ago, and it is rather endearing-)

“I sure hope so,” Thorin says hoarsely, and breathes a kiss against her still chapped lips.

“So, if you're the King, and you the Consort... what does that make me?”

“The Queen,” Dwalin contently hums against her collar bone, face now hidden in the crook of her neck. “Bilbo – there's something else we ought to discuss. About succession-”

“Fíli's the heir,” she interrupts him, gulping deeply. (It does not sting quite that badly anymore.) “Unless... unless you're not alright with that. But, he was trained his whole life to take the throne one day, and both of you consider him a son anyway. Also, he’s charming, and can be a diplomat if he wants to, he’ll make an excellent King. Besides, our child will always be half-bred – and while I've long learned that your people are far more tolerant than mine, I'd rather not risk my luck when it comes to politics.” That, she is sure of.

Thorin chuckles softly. “Alright. This was our preferred option either way, but we would've reconsidered if you'd have wanted anything else.”

Bilbo shudders, and raises an eyebrow even though neither is focussed on her face at the moment. “No thanks. The more I can stay out of politics, the better. Unless you're dealing with elves, of course – then I'll have to step in, I fear.”

“Please do,” Dwalin easily agrees, and Bilbo highly suspects she might get him to approve of anything right now.

She raises her fingers to gently run across his bald head, basking in his warmth as he shivers against her.

“I… there is something else we need to talk about, something I was too exhausted to… mention last time.” Too cowardly as well, if she is completely honest with herself.

Reluctantly abandoning his little hideout in the crook of her neck Dwalin lets his own fingers travel down her arm until they find hers, entwining them.

“And what would that be?”

“I… well. It’s… about what I said after I woke up, that I… that can’t ever return to the Shire.”

Thorin, too, reaches for one of her hands. They have taken to doing this in endearing sync, always there to reassure her of their presence, their sincerity, their _love_. (And Bilbo would feel bad, for keeping them here, when they ought to be needed in so many other places as well, but – she is not yet strong enough to send them away, not even for duty, and judging by their murky worry and evasive answers she slept for a whole lot longer than she thought, after waking up that last time. No, she is not cruel enough to chase them back to the reality of their Kingship if she has, indeed, lain unconscious for a few more days since that one she first woke.)

“What about it?” he questions lowly, voice ever a deep rumble in his chest, and his deep, blue eyes so very worried. “You sounded so terribly sincere when you said that, and neither of us knew of a reason.”

“Well,” Bilbo smiles, a little unsuccessfully, “having a bastard child would’ve been more than enough reason for most hobbits to ostracize me.” She does regret that admission when she sees them wince as one, but it is too late now to take it back. “And, well, while that’s no longer a problem, obviously,” and thank Yavanna for that!, “I… still can’t return, ever.”

“And why not?” Dwalin, this time, is the one to gently prod when she does not continue.

Taking a deep breath, she once more draws up every little sliver of courage she has left, knowing that this conversation is unavoidable, no matter how much she might wish any different. They deserve to know – what their Intended did. “It’s about… about what I did to Azog,” she quietly admits, almost too lowly for them to pick up, and both square their shoulders upon that. “I… when I did that, I broke our most sacred law. It… it _changed_ me, too, in a way that can never be undone, and all hobbits will be able to sense it. Perhaps… it may even have cost me the right of entry into the Green Lady’s fields…”

“It… changed you?” Thorin asks, voice husky and fingers clinging to hers upon this cruel admission.

She can feel it, in both of them – the mute, petrifying shock, and the desperate hope that wells up but moments later: That, perhaps, if Yavanna will really bar her entrance, Mahal might be gracious enough to allow her into his halls instead. (That, indeed, this might even be a blessing in disguise, a way for her to stay with them even after death has claimed them all.)

“Is this about what Gandalf helped you with?”

“No, that… that was simple overextension of my abilities. It – it’s possible, for those of us who are, well, more talented than others, to stretch our reach farther than we’re meant to. It’s dangerous, though, and… well, it made me lose all control, and if I hadn’t fled to your emotions, clawed my way in and stayed there until Gandalf came to help me… uh, let’s just, let’s just say it wouldn’t have been pretty.”

“You mean… you could have died?” Dwalin asks slowly, new horror rumbling in the depths of molten head.

Bilbo unhappily shrugs with one shoulder, trying her very best to give him a comforting smile. “To… be honest, I didn’t really believe I’d survive it in the first place, even though our child was more than enough incentive to try and stay alive against all odds.”

“But then why did you do it?” The tall warrior, she can tell, is close to reaching for her shoulders and shaking her, panicked incomprehension racing his heart. “Why take such a risk?”

“Because,” Thorin rumbles, a desperate little smile on his own lips as he reaches for his husband’s free hand and fairly clings to it, “we were in danger.” And the incredible _faith_ that wells up, faith into her, her love and her decisions, knocks all air from her lungs.

_Yavanna-_

“You shouldn’t have!” Dwalin tells her, pale blue gaze so very sincere. “Not for us – I know, you’re the sole reason we made it through this quest alive, and mostly whole, but I wish – Mahal I _wish_ – that you’d stop endangering your own life in order to save ours!”

“Then perhaps you ought to stop finding all those dangerous predicaments you need saving from,” Bilbo finds herself able to gently tease, pulling his so much larger hand up to breathe a soft kiss against his scar-littered knuckles. “Besides, there was nothing else I could’ve done. I knew, the moment I saw Azog, what it was going to come down to. And I… I wouldn’t have minded sacrificing myself either, if it hadn’t been for, well. For the fact that I would’ve killed our child, too, if I hadn’t done everything to stay alive. And I never could’ve forgiven myself for that.”

“Then I will thank the Green Lady every day, for granting us this mercy,” he whispers, looking a little forlorn, and the hobbit finds herself quite unable to watch this any longer.

“Come here,” she murmurs, pulling him up against her side and pressing another gentle kiss against his brow. “I… I’m sorry if I worried you. I just, I need to tell you. What I did. I… need to make sure that you won’t mind that, either.”

“We won’t leave you, agyâdê, whatever it is,” Thorin vows, and Bilbo smiles a sad little smile against Dwalin’s bald head.

“I know you believe that,” she murmurs, squaring her shoulders and collecting herself before either of them has the opportunity to ask. “So, what I did – it’s something very few of us are ever capable of, and something so forbidden… well, if we were anything but hobbits, any people less gentle, they would’ve killed me for it.”

Thorin’s heart skips a beat, in time with a sudden quake shaking the seabed, and he closes his eyes in defeat. “Bilbo… would you just tell us, without causing any more possible heart-attacks? We’ve seen you terribly hurt, and so close to death, there’s really no need for any more images to haunt us, be they real or imagined.”

…oh. “I’m sorry,” she whispers, grasping his fingers more tightly, “it’s just… this is hard for me. Admitting what I di- … oh, alright. I, well, I… _clawed_ my way into his emotions, for lack of better wording, and… twisted them. What was hatred became love, and that moment of distraction…”

“…was when Dwalin took his chance,” Thorin finishes, squeezing her fingers in return. “So, you could… you could reach _into_ us, right now, and change what we’re feeling?”

Bilbo averts her gaze.

(This is exactly what she was afraid of-)

“I could,” she admits, worrying her lower lip, “but – just crudely, you know? Nothing exact, or detailed, and you’d know, afterwards, that what you felt wasn’t _real_.”

“Like… the gold madness?” Dwalin asks, trepidation clear in his voice, and she pulls her fingers from his faster than he can hold onto them, squeezing her eyes shut.

“No! …not really. What you felt, on those battlements, was real. I- I know your emotions, and I could tell, they were yours. They were just… I don’t even know-”

“Bilbo,” Thorin rumbles next to her still bandaged ear, strong arms winding around her trembling shoulders, “khajmel, that’s not what he meant. I – what I felt, then, concerning you and the Arkenstone, was… I _know_ that those were my own thoughts and emotions, twisted and shameful though they were, and I know that you’d never use your gift against us.”

“So do I,” Dwalin murmurs, reaching for her fist and ever so gently prying it open. “Please forgive me, ghivashel, I know that sounded like I didn’t, but – the simple thought that there might be powers left, out there, that could force us to turn against you once more-”

He shudders, hot desperation hurtling through the air, and presses his nose against her palm.

“Your forgiveness was given so easily, so lightly. No dwarrow would’ve taken us back like you did, but… you’re not a dwarrow, and we love you as the beautiful hobbit you are. Still, if it weren’t for your abilities to feel our emotions, for the fact that allowing any pain to torture us would mean allowing it to torture _you_ in turn… We will forgive ourselves, this time, for your sake. I will always regret what I allowed to happen after we reached the mountain, but I can forgive myself for you, if indeed it spares you any pain. If I thusly failed you again, however – there is nothing, _nothing_ , anyone could do to make me forgive myself. I will not allow any more hurt to befall you, my Bilbo, I promise. _I love you._ ”

“And I you,” Bilbo whispers, turning to hide her face against his broad chest as Thorin moves to lie against her back, “you great big lump of dramatic overreaction. I don’t need grand promises, or vows not to forgive yourself – all I want is to be with you. It won’t always be easy, it never is, but… I just want a family.”

She almost feels them share that glance once more, their hands resting against her thigh touching with a gentleness she would have never believed possible when she first met them.

“That we can give you.”

“Especially as it is a wish we share.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, wow, even more talking... but no tears this time ;)


	20. Beneath the Blue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently, _Beneath the Blue_ is an American movie drama - never seen it, but, according to Wikipedia, there are dolphins :p
> 
> Also, I'm not entirely happy with the "flow" of this chapter. It refused to written in any other way, though, so you'll have to just roll with it... hope you enjoy it none the less :)

### XX: Beneath the Blue

The bedding underneath her left shoulder dips, the sudden movement enough to rudely tear Bilbo from her dreamless sleep, and she wakes to excited chatter in her mind and hastily whispered insults exchanged across her.

She might have been cold, too, in the glaring absence of Thorin and Dwalin’s wonderful heat (for they were there when she fell asleep), if not for the warm, slender dwarven bodies wriggling up against her from both sides.

“If you were trying to sneak in here without waking me you gloriously failed,” she yawns, opening her eyes and trying to spit out the blond and dark locks of hair that found their way into her mouth the moment she opened it. “Does your uncle know you scarpered and went to get a few well-earned cuddles without him or Dwalin in the way?”

“Well-earned. I like that,” Kíli murmurs into her collarbone, lying snugly fitted against her much like the tall warrior did the night before.

“One can never be too old to deserve proper cuddles,” Bilbo declares, careful to avoid any further hair in her mouth, and wriggles about until she has succeeded in raising both hands to card through it instead, their heads now resting on either of her upper arms.

Fíli hums wordlessly against her neck, fingers fisting into the tunic they must have dressed her in while she lay sleeping (it is dark blue, way too large, and smells so wonderfully of Thorin), and she can tell his eyes grow heavy in time with the excited chatter slowly dying down.

“Are the two of you alright? I asked Dwalin and Thorin, of course, when I woke last time, whether all of you made it through the battle relatively well, but-”

“We’re good,” Kíli smiles, wrapping his arm around her waist and pressing closer still. “I broke a toe or two-”

“-or five,” Fíli sleepily and quite unhelpfully interjects-

“-but I’ve gotten the knack of how to walk-”

“-hobble, you mean-”

“-without it hurting too much, so I’m fine. Fíli got himself a sprained ankle, so he’s hobbling along-”

“-oy! My hobbling is way more dignified than yours!-”

“-with me, don’t listen to him, as well as a small stab wound through the upper arm, but it didn’t hit anything vital, along with a black eye. It’s abated by now, but sure would’ve made him a hit with the ladies. If, you know, there were any other than you in this mountain.”

“Well, the best he could’ve expected from me would’ve been a sound dressing down for having gotten hurt in the first place,” she smiles fondly, gently tugging at one of the blond prince’s braids. “But I’ll leave that for your mother. Someone has to make sure Thorin will survive her inevitable wrath after all.”

Two mussed heads shoot up at that, and two pairs of wide, ingenuous eyes stare at her with an almost equal expression of utter betrayal while twin-voices cry out in shock.

Bilbo raises an amused eyebrow.

“I may not know her, but was told enough to expect her to try and gut Thorin for allowing the two of you to come to any harm the moment she sees you, and, should she be thwarted from that, make another attempt to geld him once she is told of our problems, as well as my pregnancy.” She pulls first Fíli, then Kíli in to rest their foreheads against hers, and her treacherously fond smile deepens.

The boys, however, freeze upon her last words, before their eyes widen even further, against nature herself.

“So it’s true?”

“Óin said, but we didn’t know if it was even possible-”

“And everyone was so worried that you’d leave and it wouldn’t matter either way-”

“I’m going nowhere,” Bilbo reassures them, the worried voices crying out in fear more than enough for her to understand that they, too, need to hear it from her. “And yes, it’s true. You’ll be getting another sibling in a few months.”

“Cousin,” Fíli hoarsely corrects her, eyes swivelling to stare at her still flat belly instead.

“Thorin and Dwalin both consider you to be their sons,” she gently reminds them, small hands still resting against both brothers’ napes. “And I, well, I’d be lying if I claimed that you haven’t wormed your way into my heart, too. I- … I know that you have a mother, but I always wished for a large family, like most hobbits do, and – while I certainly consider all of the Company a part of it by now, what I feel for you two… is a little more special still.”

“Because we’re Thorin’s sister-sons?”

“Well, perhaps a little, for there was no way to be courted by those two without getting you lot as a package deal,” she teases, lips twitching. “But, even if he weren’t your uncle, or if my pining over him hadn’t come to anything, you still would’ve carved out a special place in my heart for yourselves. I’d still have considered you children – _my_ children.” It is freeing, confessing this, and yet as hard as anything – in the Shire, such a declaration would have been met with anger about how she was trying to steal another’s children, unable to have any herself and yet so greedy to reach out for what was not hers-

She desperately hopes that, once more, her dwarrows are a much more sensible lot than the people of the gentle Shire will ever be.

“W-what should we call you?” Kíli sniffles, head hidden against her collarbone again, and Fíli’s fist tightens around the dark blue tunic even as she slowly breathes out, relief settling into her bones once more.

“How about Bilbo? You’ve already got someone to call mother. Besides, you’re calling Thorin uncle and Dwalin by his name, and I doubt that you feel any less love for them than you do for your father, may Mahal value his sacrifice.” By now, she has learned such phrases. Bit by bit her dwarrows allowed her into their hearts and lives, slowly sharing more and more of their so greedily guarded culture (perhaps, even then, in the wild hope that might stay with them, if only they tempt her enough-). “Names aren’t necessary to define what we feel for another person, you know?” Here she breathes a kiss against the wild, dark mane, her heart finally slowing down again.

Fíli, in the meantime, turns his head to meet her eyes once more, smiling a little lopsidedly. “We dwarrows, too, dream of large families. It’s just that we so very rarely get to have them…”

Oh Yavanna.

They have both lost so much, and so _many_ -

“Well, you’ve got me now. I’m a hobbit, and I’ll make sure that this family, however large, will be as close as possible. Besides, there may yet be a few more siblings to follow this one… your uncles and I have already proven that we’re quite compatible.” She grins, wide and a little dangerous, and the boys – as expected – yelp as if in pain and turn to bury their faces in the crook of her neck in denial, dark thoughts chased away by this remainder.

(A single bed shared, and a child already on the way – compatible indeed. But, they were _made for each other_ after all-)

In the doorway, a low growl rumbles deeply in Thorin’s chest, and Dwalin’s pale blue eyes hungrily roam over her half-way blanket covered form.

“We thought we might find you here, you rascals.”

“We left to collect our well-deserved snuggles,” Kíli defiantly murmurs against her neck, stubbornly clinging to her so much smaller body instead of making way for the as of yet uncrowned King and his Consort, to sit with their Queen.

Bilbo once more finds a fond smile having made its way to her lips.

“Boys, how about you allow me to sit? Then we can talk more easily.”

“Are you sure you’re allowed to do so already?” Fíli asks, frowning worriedly, while his brother does not appear to ever intend to abandon the crook of her neck.

Dwalin snorts.

“She sat the day she first woke, because she wanted to, when we could tell every movement still hurt her terribly. If there’s anything she wants, neither of us will be able to keep her from it.”

“I’m glad you’ve realized that,” Bilbo grins, unrepentant, and allows him and Fíli to help her sit while Thorin peels Kíli off her side. Her leg throbs a little, being moved, and she has a feeling that her ribs will be black and blue for yet some time, but her head and ear no longer hurt and her throat feels fine as well. That much, she can deal with. “So, what duties did you shirk in order to come here, all of you?”

Apparently, she is well enough to feel bad for keeping them from whatever needs to be done once more.

Bother.

“We didn’t shirk any duties!” Kíli pouts, cuddling back up against her side once she has settled down comfortably against the headboard. “I was assigned to the teams cleaning the battlefield, again, and I spent the whole day dragging corpses and burning orcs and goblins, until it was too dark to see and everyone called it a night. _Again_.” Bilbo shudders at the imagination of having to do this, suddenly glad that she is still bed-ridden, and as such able to escape such tasks without having to feel bad about it. “And Fee was with Balin, Ori and Thorin, until they sent him away for the evening. See?”

Apparently, it is evening… well. Who could have said, being inside a mountain, with the sun locked away?

“Alright,” she smiles, carding her fingers through the dark-haired prince’s tangled curls once more, “it looks like both of you have more than earned a break. What about you, then?” Here she raises her gaze to meet two pairs of blue ones, smiling teasingly.

Thorin, too, pouts (and that is a sight entirely too endearing). “Like Kíli said, we worked all day. I might be King, which includes almost ridiculous mountains of paperwork to be processed, but I do believe I’m entitled to spend time with the ones I love.”

Dwalin, who has wrapped an arm around his husband – his hand most certainly resting in a place she will not mention for now, if only to spare the princes the mental image of his strong fingers on their uncle’s fine arse – snorts. “See, umralamê, that’s what your presence did to him. You’ve made him all mushy.”

“And a fine job you did, too,” Fíli grins, and finally skirts over in order to allow the two of them to sit with her. “Alright, Dwalin, what did you spend your day doing? Wouldn’t want your beloved to think you’re a lazy bugger, aye?- _Ow_!”

“I coordinated the guard rotations and details, and spent the rest of my time training those idiots from the Iron Hills how to actually fight with axes. Hopeless, the lot of them,” the tall dwarrow loudly complains, ignoring the fact that those of Dáin’s warriors still residing in Erebor were at least skilled enough to survive the battle, and easily evades Fíli’s attempt to kick him – an answer to the rather hard swat to the head he received a few moments earlier – even as he collapses into the place the blond prince just vacated with a relieved moan.

“Now, what I came here for-”

His large, _large_ hand smoothes against her cheek and jaw, pulling her close and meeting her halfway. His lips are dry and a little chapped, and feel wonderful against hers as she is engulfed in molten heat once more. It is everywhere, dancing against her skin and racing her heart, and when they part again Bilbo finds herself panting, staring at her beloved with wide, dark eyes.

“I missed that,” she hoarsely admits, and turns to mould her lips against Thorin’s, who already awaited her.

_It feels like sliding into a tub of hot water in the evening after a day spent working hard, with a glass of good wine and a bowl of fresh strawberries covered in cream on the side table, and a stack of fluffy towels waiting to draw her into their very own embraces. Like-_

“Ew!” Fíli, quite loudly and emphatically, complains.

Feeling her lips twitch in fond exasperation Bilbo rests her head against Thorin’s shoulder, and eyes both princes with warmth curling deep in her stomach. “You know,” she contently reminds them, “if you sneak in here like you did, you shouldn’t be surprised to find us, you know, _in love_ with each other, and behaving accordingly. Rather, be grateful that I don’t mention any details of where Dwalin’s hand was go-”

“We’re grateful! We’re grateful!” Kíli yelps, slapping his hands across his ears, even as Fíli stares at her in fascinated horror. (He is quite torn, she can tell, between being utterly disgusted and terribly curious.)

Bilbo breaks down into laughter upon the honest panic in the younger prince’s eyes, and it hurts in both her ribs and throat, but when Dwalin joins in, great bellows resounding in the small chamber chosen for her to heal in, when Thorin chuckles deeply and even Fíli cannot fight back the sudden giggles threatening to escape – there is no place she’d rather be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was high time for some cuddly!fluffy!family-time.


	21. Born on a Blue day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Born on a Blue day_ is a book written by Daniel Tammet, and one I thoroughly enjoyed reading.
> 
> Well... looks like we're finally getting to the end of this fic.  
> Only one more chapter after this...

### XXI: Born on a Blue day

“You’re a volcano,” she whispers into Dwalin’s ear one memorable evening, when they are curled together in the large bed that Thorin had brought into the chamber they chose for their bedroom, connected to the large room that has come to be the centre of their Company’s living quarters – the place where they all meet after a hard day’s work. The time on the road bound them together irreversibly, made them a _family_ instead of distant kin and dwarrows (as well as a hobbit, of course) desperate enough to march against a dragon wildly cobbled together, and neither of them could imagine parting ways just like that.

Dwalin’s large hand rests on her swollen belly, a few months along as she is, his fingers splayed out and so very warm through the thin, simple tunic Dori made for her. (She tried to insist that she was perfectly capable of sewing her own clothes, too, but the gentle dwarrow insisted that not only would he enjoy being allowed to take up his craft once more, but also that two certain dwarrows would most definitely enjoy seeing her in dwarven clothing. She had not hesitated long to give in after that.) His face is, once more, hidden in the crook of her neck, rough beard scraping against the soft skin there, and she has tried her very best to wrap her short arms around his broad frame.

“Not that I’ve ever seen one, mind you, but I’ve seen pictures, of course, and read descriptions, and it’s the only word to describe what I feel when I sense your emotions.”

“A volcano?” he asks, voice rough, and presses his face closer still.

The molten heat is in indescribable turmoil, sloshing and swashing and spraying, and Bilbo is almost tempted to reach out and try to calm it, take the shock and disgust and _pain_ from it and bring her love peace. And yet, she knows, there is little she can do now but hold him, and show him that he is, at the very least, not alone.

“You’re molten heat,” she quietly explains, and raises one hand from his strong shoulder to lay onto his instead. “You always warm me, inside and out. When I… when I cut myself off, in Mirkwood and later during the battle, I thought that I’d never be warm again – until you held me, and the heat of your love seeped back into my heart.” A few months ago, at the beginning of their Journey, she would have called anyone a fool who chose such sweet words when talking to a dwarrow, for surely they would just laugh and have no appreciation for the meaning behind them, but now? Now she knows that dwarrows love as intensely and deeply as anyone, and that their beloved’s words would always matter to them above all else, sweet or not. “When… when you thought you’d lost me – it was like an explosion frozen mid-motion, and the _pain_ clinging to every trickle and sliver… was unbearable.”

She has been waiting for an opportunity to tell them what their emotions are, to her, so that she might explain what even such simple acts as being kissed by them mean, and now is the best time, desperate as they are for distraction and oblivion, after the events of the past day. And perhaps it is cruel of her, to remind him of their painful past, but what happened that fateful day at the Gate will always be a part of their lives, and Bilbo has long made her peace with it.

She does, after all, know exactly what they feel for her, and how much they really regret what happened.

“When you kiss me… there’s heat everywhere. In me, around me, in every place we touch but also in every place we don’t. When you pull me against you, and feel my body ever so close to yours, there’s a deep well of want, and when our tongues touch arousal bubbles up to the surface, and the heat grows. And when we… lie like this, with your hand on my belly, there’s this hot steam of happiness reaching every nook and cranny the magma might not have touched.”

She can feel the pain and desperation subside a little upon this remainder of what they will have, instead of what was lost, and in the doorway the deep, churned up waters calm a little.

“And I? what do I feel like to you?” Thorin asks, voice rough and a terrible tension to the lines in his face, and drops his great fur coat – the one he wore during their Quest, and still does now instead of the thrice-cursed raven crown to obviously outline his position – without care nor caution. He toes off his boots, then, already on his way over to the large and so wonderfully soft bed, and when the heavy door to their chamber snaps shut he is crawling up to where the two of them are wrapped around each other.

“You’re like the sea,” Bilbo says, and shifts a little so that she can wrap her free arm around Thorin. (Their large hands, as they mostly do these days, meet on her belly, and the entwining of their blunt fingers tells her more than even their muddy emotions how trying and terrible this day really was.) “It’s never still, always moving and ever so deep and terrifying, but… well. I’m a hobbit, and we _hate_ large bodies of water, yet I’ve found safety in yours. After the battle, when I’d clawed my way in, there was a huge maelstrom, reaching as far as any eye might see, that was frozen in agony. And when you kiss me… it’s taking a leap of faith, and jumping into unknown depths, and being surrounded by you on all sides. It’s being submerged, and never wanting to come up for air again.”

Silence settles onto their chamber deep within the mountain, until Thorin hums lowly.

“I like that,” he quietly acknowledges, blunt fingers gently massaging his husband’s. “I might’ve preferred being a mountain, of course, but-”

“-but a mountain is rigid, and immobile,” Bilbo interrupts him, breathing a kiss against his forehead. “You might believe it more dwarvish, or something equally ridiculous, but a mountain would’ve never fit you. You feel too intensely, too deeply, too _passionately_ to be portrayed by something so stiff.”

He hums again, and no words follow this time, but she knows that he has understood and accepted her explanation, a little of the indescribable pain clinging to the whipped-up waves seeping away.

_Bilbo… the teams working through the collapsed tunnels and walkways exposed the area where most of the women and children would spend their days. Apparently the two headings leading up to it collapsed when Smaug came… I’m sure you can imagine what our people found. Don’t worry, none of us want to see you anywhere near there, I just – well, Balin insisted I come and warn you, since there was little I could still do down there. Thorin and Dwalin, however, will be caught up for quite some time there, and might not be in the best of moods once they retire. Just so you know._

Óin’s words had been kind, and the elderly healer had spent the following few hours with her while all other of their Companions (except for Bombur, who was working in the kitchens, and Ori, whom both Balin and his brothers had wanted to spare the pain) had helped carry out the countless bodies of what would have been the greatest treasure of their people, and finally give them proper burials.

Dwalin had been the first to return, a few hours after what would have been time for their joint dinner any other day, and sent Óin to take care of all those who had helped, staying with her in his stead. They had quickly migrated to the bed, then, and Bilbo had done her very best to try and give him what comfort she could.

(She is still trying.)

“Did you… finish it?” she asks cautiously, and Thorin nods against her neck.

Well… perhaps a distraction is in order. There is little than can be done now for all those women and dwarflings who perished in these rooms, now that they have been buried properly, and Bilbo dearly needs to wake her two dwarrows from this painful stupor before they lose themselves in it.

“I do have to admit I’m surprised,” she takes up the thread of their previous conversation, forcing her voice to be light and gently teasing, “that neither of you have asked yet.”

“Asked what?” Dwalin inquires after a few moments of bland silence, and a tentative smile slips onto her lips.

“What it felt like.”

“What?” Dwalin is, once more, the one to ask – even though he must have an inkling what he is speaking of, if the slowly growing heat is any indication.

“When we shared a bed… in Laketown.”

That addition was, perhaps, unnecessary, but Bilbo wants to be more than clear what she is on about. It has, after all, been months since they last lay with each other, that night they made their vows… granted, after the Battle she was too injured to secure their physical bond once more, but her wounds healed well and without any complications, naught but a few scars remaining of them (even though the terrible flash of pain that hits Dwalin whenever he sees those covering her neck, or the one that torments Thorin when his deeply blue eyes fall onto her ear has barely lessened with time). They are terribly worried about any possible complications considering their child, Bilbo knows, but – unfortunately – she also knows what Hamfast and Bell were up to more than a few months into the younger hobbit’s pregnancy, and she is not made of glass.

(Besides, she can tell that they _want_ to, even though they never say-)

“Well, what did it feel like?” Dwalin, once more, asks, voice suddenly throaty for a different reason, and Bilbo smiles in satisfaction when his large hand twitches to cover her ample breasts instead of her slowly growing belly.

“Why don’t you make me feel like that again, and I tell you as we go along?” she suggests, a little breathless already, and a deep growl resonates in Thorin’s chest.

(From the heat rising in both of them, she can tell that either is quite happy to play along.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (What I guess I don't ever told you: I usually try to get a little variety into the answers to your beautiful reviews, depending on how much time I have and how I'm feeling, in order to prevent any generic answer "taking over". During that process I only consider the reviews to one chapter, though, and not those to the whole story, so there's still a possibility that some of you get highly similar answers every time by coincidence. If that ever happened to any of you - know that I'm sorry.)


	22. Blue is the warmest colour

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo... the final chapter.
> 
> I do have to admit I'm feeling a little nostalgic here...
> 
> Enjoy some good and proper happy-ending-fluff :)
> 
> ( _Blue is the warmest colour_ is a french romantic drama movie, and very, uh, interesting... I did enjoy it xD)

### XXII: Blue is the warmest colour

Dís, daughter of Thráin and Princess under the Mountain, turns out to be very similar to her brother in many respects.

Both look remarkably alike, with long locks of dark hair and piercing eyes the exact same shade of blue, both will stop short of nothing when it comes to the safety and happiness of those they love, and both siblings’ emotions are a wide, deep body of water. Where Thorin is like the sea, however, endless and dark and unpredictable, Dís reminds Bilbo of the pond tucked away into the hills of Buckland, ever so vast and going deeper than any hobbit has yet discovered, but also flaunting safely shallow spots for the young Tooks and Brandybucks to play in, and beautiful green shores many a picnic was already held on.

Where Thorin means safety for her, strong arms and hot kisses, Dís – makes her feel like this, the mountain, _Erebor_ … might actually be a home.

“So you’re the One to complete my idiot brother and his oaf of a Consort,” the resolute dwarrowdam states the moment she swipes into the chambers that have, over the course of the last few months, slowly been turned into a home for the royal family, their most trusted, and a single hobbit living underneath a mountain, “I’m glad they finally found you. My sons mentioned that you’re a sensible sort, thank Mahal, we sorely need some more brains in this family – oh, and I see congratulations are in order?”

“Fíli and Kíli didn’t spill that particular secret, then?” Bilbo smiles as she struggles to stand up, her swollen belly the reason she did not receive this first and largest caravan coming from the Blue Mountains at the Gates in the first place. (That, and her beloveds’ rather irrational fear, for – apparently – their people’s dams have a much harder time of having children than hobbits do, and they have been trying their honest best to keep her from moving any more than absolutely necessary for quite a few weeks now. So, of course, waddling across Erebor to join the reception committee was out of the question.)

“I do believe they kept that certain titbit of information as an extra string to their bows in order to divert your attention in case it became too smothering, sister dear,” Thorin remarks, amusement audible in his deep voice and bubbling lightly in the murky waters, and strides over to press a whiskery kiss against Bilbo’s lips and her right back into the armchair she has only just managed to stand up from. “Sit back down, gayadê. If anyone will understand your situation, it’s my sister.”

“I’d love to claim that there’s no similarity whatsoever, a chéadsearc,” Bilbo snarks right back, effortlessly continuing their war of as of yet un-translated pet names that has been going on for quite some time now even as she accepts Dís’ easy (if logistically slightly challenging) embrace, “considering that we’re talking about Fíli and Kíli and the fact that they’ve surely caused countless troubles before they were even born, but I haven’t forgotten that it’s _your and Dwalin’s child_ I’m carrying, so that’d be a futile reasoning.”

Dís bursts into sudden, barking laughter, and Bilbo hums contently. Oh yes, her Companions’ predictions will, most certainly, come true: The two of them will get along splendidly.

“Please, do sit down,” she amicably prompts this gorgeous dwarrowdam who is to be her sister, “I’d offer you tea, but, as you hear, I’ve been banned from doing as I want. Thorin, a ghrá, do put the kettle on, would you?”

Pressing another kiss against her temple Thorin dutifully makes for the little, familiar kitchen attached to this chamber (a feature both Bombur and the hobbit insisted on) while Bilbo and Dís share an amused smile.

“You’ve trained him well,” the Princess remarks, amusement bubbling in the warm pond, and finally shucks her heavy fur coat so similar to her brother’s.

“It’s his own fault, for being so overcautious. Believe me, I understand how hard and dangerous pregnancies can be for your people, but, living amongst dwarrows or not, I’m still a hobbit. Many of our women have more than five children, some even more than ten – if they were incapable of moving around with another one on the way, who’d take care of the older fauntlings when their husbands are out in the fields, working?” Tilting her head back she looks up at Thorin who has come up from behind, and turns to breathe a kiss against the large hand coming to rest on her shoulder. “But, you’ll learn soon enough, once you can barely breathe between your kingly duties, Dwalin having to beat sense into all those guards’ arses, and I’m here alone with your eldest children.”

Thorin’s eyes, as expected, widen a little upon this prediction, before a wide smile sneaks onto his lips, as always when she speaks of children. He leans forward, then, to kiss her quite thoroughly, and it is only Fíli’s yelp of pure emotional pain (or so he claims) that tears them apart.

“Can’t you do that somewhere else? Kee and I are already scarred for life, you don’t have to make it any worse!”

“And here I would’ve thought that you caught us kissing often enough in this very room to know better than to simply tromp in here without making sure you won’t be scarred again first,” Dwalin calmly remarks on his way over to the armchair Bilbo has claimed for herself, only to lift her into his strong arms without so much as a by-your-leave, carrying her over to a wide and already well-worn davenport. He settles them into it without even jolting her, his hold as secure as ever, and Bilbo leans against him without complaining. (It would have been futile anyway, and rather stupid – the gleeful bubbles disturbing the orange, ever so hot surface told her more than clearly what he was about to do.)

“Here, bunmel, your tea,” Thorin rumbles, pulling the heavy tea table closer with one hand and setting the heavy metal pot onto it. The heavy scent of anise wafts through the room, and Bilbo smiles up at him.

“You were supposed to prepare some for your sister, a mhuirnín,” she reminds him, teasing ever so gently, “I might be pregnant, but that doesn’t mean I may shirk my hosting duties – my mother would’ve been ashamed indeed if I had no tea to offer to my future sister when she finally arrives after a long journey!”

“Which is the precise reason I chose that particular blend,” he replies contently, already sinking onto the davenport next to his husband, and Dís raises a surprised eyebrow.

“I must admit, I underestimated your influence on my brother – and after my sons’ letters, I had high expectations. Perhaps, with your help, he will even manage not to provoke a war with our wood-dwelling neighbours.”

“Oh, I’ll make sure of that,” Bilbo smiles rather dangerously, and next to her the King flinches a little. “Don’t worry, we’ll have good relations with the elves.”

“Do we have to?” Glóin, pulling his own favourite armchair over to join them, bemoans, only to receive an elbow to the ribs for his troubles.

“Finally someone to keep Thorin and Dwalin under control,” a beautiful dwarrowdam with a fiery beard to put Glóin’s to shame states and easily slips past him, only to unashamedly claim his armchair. “Glóin, umralamê, do bring me some of that tea.”

Glóin, however, does not appear affronted or annoyed in any way. Instead he raises her hand to breathe a kiss against her knuckles, dark eyes alight with delight to have her at his side once more, countless golden coins tinkling merrily. “Ásdís, my love, anything for you.”

“Would you please stop that?” a young dwarrow, who must be Gimli (even if Bilbo had not seen the picture in his father’s locket she would have recognized the lad from the many, many stories), complains in wide-eyed misery, and Dís cackles.

“Just wait until you’ve found someone for yourself,” Bilbo smiles, “you won’t be able to keep your fingers to yourself either.”

“Perhaps I’ll bring home an elf, and mess around with them before ‘adad’s eyes,” the youngest in the room grumbles, and skulks over to where Fíli and Kíli are sitting.

“Please don’t, I’ll be the one who’ll have to deal with his heart-attack,” is Óin’s doubtfully helpful comment as he sits down in his usual spot by the merrily burning fire.

Bilbo wriggles a little in Dwalin’s lap (and perhaps purposefully presses her backside against rather sensitive places one time or five, which earns her a growl and a gentle pinch) until she is sat in a way that allows her to observe the whole room slowly become more and more crowded as her Companions arrive after one another, accompanied by those family members who finally reached Erebor with today’s caravan. Bombur is followed by his smiling wife as well as four tiny dwarflings and carrying a fifth, and there is a shy lad sitting with Nori. Balin’s beautiful wife has claimed his chair much like Ásdís did Glóin’s, her beard as long and white as her One’s, and is already in deep conversation with Dís. Bombur’s chubby-cheeked wife has claimed the second davenport for herself and Bifur’s sister, and there is a young dwarrowdam sitting with the boys and Gimli that both Fíli and Kíli are looking at more often than not.

Sighing contently Bilbo leans against Dwalin’s strong shoulder even as her hand reaches out for Thorin’s, and allows the chatter to wash across her as she greedily absorbs all those positive emotions filling this room that is more of a home already than Bag End was for a long time.

There will be much to do tomorrow, a coronation and a royal wedding ceremony to plan, and even more the following days. She will stand beside Thorin and Dwalin, as Queen of Erebor, within the month, with a delicate crown on her own brow, just in time for the birth of their eldest daughter who her husbands (as well as every other dwarrow in this mountain) will instantly fall in love with, and finally have a wonderful, large, loving _family_ -

For now, however, she is content to sit with those she has grown to love so dearly over all those months spent together, with Dwalin’s arm around her shoulders and his hand once more on her belly, and Thorin’s clinging to hers, their emotions warm and content and _happy_ drawing her deeper and deeper in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... this is it.
> 
> I hope you had as much fun reading this as I had writing it.
> 
> Thank you for staying with me, and for all those lovely comments - and special thanks, of course, to those who took the time to review each and every chapter <3  
> You were incredible, and often made my days <3

**Author's Note:**

> So... what do you think?


End file.
